Too Much Love

126 Weeks

As a kid, I can remember sometimes being forced into a family hug from someone older and stronger, female. Sort of stuck, knowing I was obligated to fulfill a longing, I'd let her squeeze. And while I sometimes couldn't breathe, it was nice to be needed and sometimes I could just relax into the embrace, tight and safe and all encompassing.

My stepmother always had a hand on me when I was young. My face, my back, my feet. She always gave loving gestures. She still does, with her fingers at the ends of my long hair. Her hugs are always there when I need one. Like little gifts I can open whenever I want.

Motherly female affection, unlike any other relationship, seems to contain physical expressions that are instinctively more meaningful than most. Touching each other is not really something we gage openly unless we are talking about mother figures. It's a common descriptor in casual conversation. "He really shouldn't have belted Janis in the conference room, but, you know, his mother wasn't very affectionate."

I often (or not often enough) credit my stepmother with having taught me to give graciously selfless, unbounded unconditional love. I have always admired her affectionate ways. While I know like many women, she aches and craves that soul-satisfying embrace one can only receive from the small, the furry, the pudgy cheeked naked baby butt into which you'd sink your teeth if it weren't for being hauled away in a straight jacket, she's always careful and respectful not to use people for her own fulfillment. She's very affectionate and opens her arms when people come running, but she doesn't run after them like a misunderstood hug monster. I try to do the same.

At least I thought I did.

On a recent car trip, as I leaned over to kiss Ren (again) he said, "Mommy. Put your whole face in the front seat."

I only bite his butt every couple of days now.