When Mom Gets Touched Out

I know it must seem unfair to my kid when I reach my sensory limit for the day. At the young age of seven, he can never get enough of his favorite human: dancing for me, making faces and noises to get a laugh, showing me his artwork, sometimes literally throwing his gangly little body at me and trying to curl up in my lap like an infant. I can entertain this sort of engagement for reasonable spurts of time, but try to force him to give me (and his dad) space and be in his own head for part of the day too. It's a lot of work trying to create this balance, because my kid is like a boomerang, always whizzing back from his bedroom to whichever part of the house I'm in because he doesn't want to be alone. By eight or nine o'clock in the evening, I'm worn down and liable to tell him to leave me alone in a tone I'm not proud of.

He is a sensory-seeking boy, constantly wiggling and making physical contact with things, people, and pets. He pulls on the curtains, climbs on his dad without warning even if there's a drink in Dad's hand, and wraps his arms around the dog's neck by way of hugging her. (We are lucky she's a mellow breed.) We're trying to teach him about respecting people's bodies, whether that means giving them space or not touching them in ways they ask not to be touched, as in tickling. The lesson doesn't always stick. It's hard for me to share the living room sofa with him, because he will quickly close any space I've left between us and squish up against me. Sometimes I enjoy the snuggling and playfulness, but he doesn't inherently know when to back off or when to leave me alone at all, such as when I'm holding a cup of coffee.

In his defense, I don't always know when my tolerance for touch and engagement is wearing thin until it's gone. Deep in my perfectionistic heart, I want to be a maximally involved parent—to be able to give my son whatever he needs from me. When he's touchy-feely, he is looking for safety; when he clamors for attention, he needs guidance on climbing out of the boredom pit, something more than my generically telling him to "go find something to do". The harsh reality for him is that I'm an introverted mom with only so much to give. While he'd prefer maximal engagement, I strive for optimal engagement: enough to satisfy his basic needs for love, safety, and the rest, while preserving energy for my own obligations and personal development. When I get that formula wrong, or when my kid puts too much of his own chaotic energy into the mix, I can easily get touched out.

The phrase "touched out" originated from mothers' aversion to excessive physical touch, by kids and partners alike, but for me it resonates for all kinds of sensory input. For instance, my son chatters all the time, which is endearing—but only up to a point, even for his loving mama. If I'm in the same room while he plays a video game, he'll subject me to continuous narration and exhortations to watch the cool move his character is about to make. Typically I'm just unwinding from work at this stage, not doing anything important, so I'll start out by indulging him. Then, as my tolerance starts to wane, I'll shift to saying "mm-hmm" without truly engaging. If I'm properly tuned into my patience level, I'll give him a polite warning to slow down on the talking. Failing that, my next move is probably to snap at him, or even leave the room if I can't handle the noise.

Dismissing my son with any sort of brusqueness is absolutely the last way I'd like our interactions to go, but it happens. During video games, it doesn't really bother him; he'll just continue talking to himself as he plays. He's getting used to us telling him to pipe down, which we do more often since his first-grade teacher complained about excessive talking in class. He is also growing used to spending (marginally) longer stretches of time in his room when asked, although some days include more boomerangs than others. Last weekend I was sick with a cold, which didn't dissuade him much from getting up in my face, and by Sunday night I'd had it. I was feeling poorly, and irritated about it since I'd just gotten over a somewhat serious illness. My son was crawling around, pretending to be my pet (bunny? cat?) and forgoing normal human language and behavior, like brushing his teeth for bed. When he approached me for the umpteenth time, wanting me to continue indulging in this animal game, I barked at him to "go away."

I don't think I'd ever said that to him before. His eyes, already widened from pretending to be a cute critter, got a little wider and sadder as he silently went to his room. As I discovered about ten minutes later, when I went to his room to apologize, he'd even put himself to bed without saying goodnight or asking for someone to tuck him in. I whispered "I love you" at his sleeping ears, hoping those words would magically override my ruder ones.

Sometimes motherhood is like being one of those bronze statues whose surfaces get rubbed, over and over, by people wishing for good luck. Mom is less a person and more a totem, emblematic of all love and light in the eyes of her child. He'll touch and prod and gaze at her, trying to consume all he can of her aura. (I often catch my son just looking at me—because, he says, "I like you.") It's done with love and respect, but still it wears away at the patina she cultivated for decades before becoming a mom. It's those weathered layers—discoloration, nicks and scratches—that make a person who she is. Mothers need some time being untouched to develop those textures that make us interesting and whole.