Enjoying: A few hours of freedom this afternoon. Stephanie took the twins out to lunch, and I met Liz for lunch at Thai Village in Princeton. Afterward, I stopped by Tab's office to bring him chocolate chip cookies I'd bought for him. Then I went to Borders, where I'm writing this in the cafe and sipping a cup of tea.

Background courtesy of
Ace of Space

Human Touch

In her August 2 entry, Grace writes about enjoying the experience of slow-dancing with a man at a wedding. As a single and currently unattached woman, she says, she is rarely touched by others. This entry reminded me of when I was single and also rarely touched.

My family was not particularly demonstrative. We hugged and kissed for big greetings and departures, but not on a daily basis. Still, I don't recall actually feeling touch-deprived until I was living alone in Portland, Maine, after I'd graduated from college. I had a few flings during those years in Portland, but there were long stretches between flings when I was rarely touched by another person.

The one exception was my boss, the director of the not-for-profit agency where I worked as the public relations director. George was a naturally demonstrative person who expressed his affection for his employees, both male and female, in a physical way. He often touched my arm when we talked. If I encountered him walking down the hall, he might place his hands on my shoulders and give them a little shake. It was merely playful, never harrassing or intimidating, and we all accepted it as just George's way. Perhaps it had something to do with his being Cuban by birth. In any case, I never minded. In fact, I realized I enjoyed being touched by someone, particularly during those long intervals when I was between boyfriends.

In the years since moving from Maine, I've often wondered whether George continued his demonstrative ways or whether misunderstandings or perhaps fear of sexual harrassment charges caused him to stop touching his employees. It would be a shame if that were the case.

From too little touch to too much: when I first started breastfeeding the twins, I often felt like my body was not my own but was instead community property. I had spent my pregnancy being poked, prodded, measured, and examined by nurses, midwives, obstetricians, ultrasound technicians, and neonatologists. And in the weeks after the babies arrived, I was nursing them for what seemed like twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four.

During those early months, I looked forward every day to my evening shower. Every night, I'd happily hand the babies off to Tab and his mother or whichever relative was over to help out, and dash for the bathroom. I'd lock the door and take my time in the shower, enjoying having my body completely to myself for a half hour.

Those days did not last long, however. Though I continued to breastfeed the twins until they were nearly two, they gradually became more efficient nursers, and I no longer had a baby attached to my breast round the clock. Besides, having experienced both not enough touching and too much, I'd choose the latter every time.

Tab and I are physically affectionate, both with each other and with our boys. We hug and kiss each other and them many times every day. We hold hands, tousle hair, and stroke faces and arms. We tickle, massage feet and scratch backs when asked, and play "piggy toes" with the boys when getting them dressed.

It just feels right.

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