On my ride to the café this morning, I sat behind a woman and small boy of about five or six, deep in discussion about the trains they would be riding today. As an expat and native English-speaker living in Switzerland, I was practicing my German by eavesdropping. Conversations between adults and young kids are ideal for learning because they usually involve slower, carefully articulated words and a simpler vocabulary.
When I venture into the more complex adult world of practicing my rudimentary German skills, I often end up in situations like the one that just happened here.I fumbled half-way through ordering a matcha tea only to forget the word for cup and invented one on the spot. The made-up word that spilled out wasn’t English or German—I heard myself say it before I could even pause to think.
As I listened to the two companions discuss the timetables for their trains, a moment passed between them that resonated deeply. While he spoke and she listened, both clearly engaged, the boy reached up and cupped the woman’s face in his hands. He turned her chin towards him, then pulled it down so their eyes could meet, leaving his hands on her cheeks while he chattered on about tracks and seats. I stopped counting the nouns I could recognize at that instant. Instead, I found myself thinking about that gesture, so casual and poignant, a slideshow of similar moments with my own children playing in my head.
My son is two and my daughter is ten-months-old. They’re both beautiful, powerful paradoxes of behaviors and emotions: Affectionate, excitable, adventurous and attached. Due to their ages and in part to our living circumstances as expats, I’m with one or both of my kids nearly all day, every day—day and night since neither is sleeping well lately. And in all those hours I get this gift of so many similar gestures, where a small palm on my cheek makes me feel connection and belonging. It’s when my daughter kisses my nose and makes a vacuum with her lips. It’s when my son exhales softly while about to fall asleep, and he’s so close his hot breath warms my skin. It’s when my husband lifts my son and I hold my daughter and we knock elbows with each other as we squeeze into a family sandwich.
Of all the acts of touch passed between my kids and me, one of my favorites is when they grab my hand and squeeze it, swing it, shake it. I love to pick them up and dance. I love when my son stands on my feet. I love the small mountain range of my daughter’s knuckles and how she giggles when I trace it. That seems to (sometimes) balance out how much I don’t love being a Kleenex (read: being the landing spot for dirty noses that get wiped off on my legs). While it’s very sweet when my baby uses a comb to pat my head, it’s also hard to keep my composure when she shrieks and headbutts my chin.
A non-exhaustive list of the physical acts involved in a day with children includes: hugging, kissing, carrying, cuddling, holding, swinging, resting, feeding, changing, bathing, brushing, cleaning, steadying, sheltering, swatting, biting, rubbing, poking, prodding, petting, pulling.
Let’s pause on that last one: pulling. It appears pulling my body is imperative to both of my kids. There are the expected ways of pulling, like tugging my pants to get my attention (it must be hard, in all honesty, to be at their height sometimes). If I’m wearing something different—a hat, headband or glasses—they’ll pull it off as soon as possible and raise it up like a prize. My son went through a quirky phase of pulling at our belly buttons. My daughter pulls at earlobes like she’s yanking apples from a tree. I love it, and it’s adorable, but sometimes I need to take a breath.
These physical gestures and engagements are universal to the child-raising experience. Though some are more specific to a time of year or day or occasion: Summer means special maneuvering to sunblock a squirming child. During winter, there’s guiding hands through tiny sleeves of extra clothing. When they’re excited, and running towards you, there’s the rush of opening your arms to catch them. Those are the same arms you also use to stop the force of their disagreements. When they’re sick, and time stops, you’ll feel their clammy necks for fever. When they’re teething, it’s shoulder-chewing season. If you’re like me, then during bath time you strap your baby to your chest, kneel and stretch over the tub to wash the toddler. And at bedtime, after all is done and they’re finally (finally!) sleeping, you’ll lean in for one more kiss and the sweet smell of their cheeks.
As I’m reflecting on all these touchpoints of being a parent, I keep envisioning a particular image of a mother lioness. One of those mama lions I’ve seen in her element on Our Planet. She’s got her head bent over and she’s grooming one of her babies, while a trio of other cubs jump around and nibble at her back. She’s steady amidst the chaos (or at least she appears to be that way). Maybe, like me, she’s holding it together with some mantras at that moment. More likely she’s thinking about food and what those cubs will be eating later.
But what I see when I imagine her is that she’s dignified and strong. She’s grounded in herself, while being centered on her kids. That’s how I’d like to be myself, though I’m still just getting there. There’s just so much sensory immersion that comes with being a new parent. Sometimes I need to cry and vent. Sometimes I feel tapped out with touch. But I’m learning that’s okay, and it won’t last forever. Those special moments with my kids? They make me feel fully human. They provide a sense of purpose, love and tenderness that feels as close to complete as I’ve ever known.
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