Mommy Wants Kisses

For much of my childhood and adolescence, my family quietly referred to me as “The Prude.” I only found out about my whispered title when I went to spend a summer with my sister after my freshman year of college. I wasn’t comfortable being naked around my family. I wasn’t really comfortable being naked around anyone, generally. Now, I can see the protection my clothing afforded me, the comfort it kept me in. Outside of the usual lack of boundaries mentally, emotionally, and verbally there were certainly no clear lines in the sand regarding the bodies of my parents’ children.

I distinctly recall being tickled by my father, well past finding it funny. I laughed and screamed and cried. I wiggled to get away. I yelled for him to stop. No pause in the tickling came until I kicked him hard in the head and quickly moved to be facing him and out of his reach. I don’t remember how old I was, but I know it wasn’t very old. Naturally, I was in trouble for kicking my father in the head. Whatever punishment I earned was worth having my own body back.

Supposedly, when my sister was little she loved our mom nibbling on her earlobes. When mom tried to do the same to me, I was skeeved out instantly. “Stop! That’s gross.” She was taken aback. My sister had loved it, had found it funny. Why was I so stuck up? Just let her do it.

Much more concerning now to me was how she would beg me into my teenage years to let her give me a hickie on my wrist. “I’m so good at them!” she would plead. “Your dad doesn’t let me do them! Just a little one, on your wrist.” It made me want to vomit. Especially the older I got, when I had made out with boys. Why in god's name did my mother want to do that to any piece of her own daughter?

Or when she, too, decided to tickle me. At 16, she cornered me against the back door and kept poking and tickling me. Again, I asked her to stop. I said stop. I moved away from her. She followed. I backed into the living room, to the computer desk where I hid to do homework and speak with friends. She pursued. When I flailed and smashed my back into the bookshelf behind me, I screamed at her. She froze, slack-jawed. How dare I yell at my mother? She was just joking around. Why was I always so uptight? Once again, I know I was punished for demanding autonomy of my body, and found it worthwhile. The silent treatment, the following passive aggression, the sideways remarks about how I was the problem were a cost I could bear to get her hands off of me.

As a punishment, my mother was quite fond of bare-bottom spankings. As I’ve written before, expensive wooden spoons were quickly discovered to be more valuable than her children’s bodies. It was usually a yard stick while she followed you around. But, if you’d done something “bad” enough, enraging enough she would sit on the sofa and tell you to come bend over her knee and pull your pants down. The other choice seemed to be getting chased down or never having a home to come back to, so we all obliged.

What a bizarre feeling to be 16 or 17 years old and schlep into the living room for sneaking out or lord knows what, and pull your pants down to lay yourself across your mother’s lap. This was an event for her bare hand, a time for her to feel the damage she inflicted personally. Quite frankly, the more I put all the pieces together, I think she liked it. I think she found some pleasure in the pain of her children at her hand.

A week ago while visiting “home,” my sister, Evelyn, got into a huff at my hating to be poked. My not wanting her feet all over me while we’re on the couch or her hand running up and down my arms or thigh had her questioning if I have a sensory processing disorder. Who knows, maybe I do? But, I train in high contact sports just fine. I spend time with a lover comfortably. I can hug friends. I don’t freak out at a stranger's leg against mine in a crowded airplane. The difference is likely that when it comes to my family, I don’t trust them with my body. Despite her disappointment at my lack of enjoyment, it’s a policy I believe I’ll maintain unapologetically.