Cast your mind back for a moment, to those early years of your relationship, those stress-free pre-child years. Romantic walks on the beach holding hands, dinners spent looking into each other’s eyes with no need for conversation, Sunday mornings spent lying in bed cuddling, reading the papers and watching Rage.
Well if you’re anything like me, a walk on the beach NOW is a full scale expedition with you as the pack horse. Dinner time is spent answering endless questions and negotiating how many carrots the kids must eat and as for Sunday mornings, well Disney Channel all the way in our house.
It’s not that I don’t love spending time with my beautiful girls but with opportunities for intimacy in such short supply, I’m beginning to fear I’ll be married to a complete stranger by the time the kids leave home.
When our girls were young, mummy and daddy cuddles were replaced with what the children liked to call ‘family cuddles’. The minute my husband put his arms round me it was a free for all. The girls devised a wonderful weight-based system of allowing five people to lie on top of each other in bed. It went something like this...
Mum and Dad lay cuddling on the bottom and were referred to as the ‘ice-cream’.
Then the eldest lay across us as ‘the chocolate sauce’. On top of the ‘chocolate sauce’ lay ‘the sprinkles’ (our middle child, age four) and last, but not least, came our youngest, ‘the cherry’, giggling profusely as she positioned herself in pride of place on the top of the sundae. “Family Hug” they’d all cry joyfully as my husband and I fought for air at the bottom. I must confess, on reflection, they were the best cuddles ever!
Two years on the girls have become more independent and the opportunity for a little ‘us time’ more prevalent. But recently we have been faced with a new threat in our quest for intimacy, someone capable of policing all parental contact with lightening speed. The ‘cuddle police’ isn’t a 6ft burly man dressed in uniform and armed with handcuffs (would have been nice, I know). This enforcement officer is armed with far more persuasive artillery: freckles, shiny eyes and a heart-melting smile peeking out from behind her sucked thumb.
It doesn’t matter how quietly we sneak upstairs to have a quick cuddle, our six-year-old arrives within a matter of seconds. Last week, in a desperate attempt to spend some time alone with my hubby, I resorted to texting him on his mobile. “Meet you in our room for a cuddle while we watch the news” I secretly requested (not exactly a romantic interlude, but beggars can’t be choosers). Seconds later we were happily spooning on the bed, watching the news and revelling in our success when our shadow appeared at the foot of the bed. It’s as if she was born with some sort of built in radar system, even the smallest release of oxytocins sends her endorphin detection monitor into frenzy and she rushes to the source.
“Can I have a cuddle too?” she pleaded, smiling sweetly. “Mum and Dad just want a little time to ourselves, okay sweet,” my husband soothed, optimistically. “Hmmmm! You guys are meanies,” she replied softly, crossing her arms, with a look of complete desolation. Sucked in once again, hook line and sinker, I reached my arms out and lifted her onto the bed. Well, what can you do? I’m sure she’ll grow out of it soon and then I’ll be begging her for cuddles!
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