Stealing My Kisses

I recently wrote about my physical love for my baby. Unfortunately, this love is getting less and less reciprocal.

Cakes does not like to be cuddled. The only time I get a cuddle is when she’s just woken up. In the short time it takes for her to clear out the cobwebs, I might get a little mellow time in my arms. Other than that, I get nothin’.

Oh, there’s one exception: she likes to give me a big hug when she’s soaking wet, getting out of her bath.

She doesn’t even like to cuddle at night, when she’s tired. She wants to be put in her crib to play with her favourite friends on her own. She’s a bit of a loner sometimes.

So, I steal my kisses. I steal them when she’s prone: on the change table, in her car seat, in her highchair; when she’s sleeping; as she’s running by to do something more interesting than hugging her mother.

I take what I can get.

Too cool for cuddling

****

I am lucky to have a husband who completely does his share around the house. I am usually most thankful. However, the other day BP cut the grass, after which he mentioned off-hand that he had pulled “some really huge weeds” from the front garden. I felt a twinge of nervousness, but quickly forgot about it. Today, as Cakes and I were heading out for a walk I thought the garden appeared a little emptier; the weeds were all gone—and so were my coralbells and lily of the valley.

Fuck.