My firstborn son was a snuggler from the start. Moments after Ryan’s birth, he nestled into my welcoming arms and looked up at me with his baby blues as if to say, “So, you’re my mommy!” He was a perfect fit as he molded to my body, eagerly nursing around the clock. Our favorite activity was curling up with each other to nap on my bed, basking in the cocoon of love and security we had miraculously created.
As he grew, Ryan was always a hugger and a kisser, offering constant unsolicited pronouncements of his love. At age three, deep in the Oedipal stage, he declared I should forget about Daddy and marry him instead.
That’s the way it was?until my son became a tween. He no longer had a tolerance for overt displays of affection, especially in public. The child who was once permanently fused to my hip, no longer wanted me to escort him into the schoolyard, let alone kiss him goodbye, in case anyone he knew should happen to see. Whenever possible, he walked several paces ahead or behind me, pretending we weren?t together. When I said goodbye, he ducked out of the way. Once, after I planted a rare kiss, I caught him wiping off his cheek, removing all invisible traces of my affection with his over-sized T-shirt.
My baby was growing up. Yes, I should have known those days were coming, but I never expected them to arrive so soon. One minute I could make the boo-boos all better; the next it was as if I had developed a serious case of the cooties.

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