How To Cuddle – A Manual

My 4-year-old daughter, aka The Boss of Everyone, recently schooled me in the art of cuddling.

Now, I’m 38 years old.  I’ve done a fair amount of cuddling during my years on Earth.  Plus, I’ve been cuddling this particular person since the night she was removed from my womb.  You’d think I’d have it down to a science, wouldn’t you?

Well, you would be wrong.  The Boss said so.

At approximately 10:15 on a Saturday night, my lessons began.  I was almost asleep, adrift in that blissful haze that creeps over me when the melatonin kicks in.  The Boss was curled up next to me, in my bed (because she’s The Boss and she does what she wants, obviously), when suddenly her little crazy-haired head appeared directly in front of my face.

“Mommy.  Mommy.  Mom-MY.  I need to tell you something.  It’s very important.  MOMMY!”

“What.  Go to sleep.  It’s late.”

“You are not cuddling me right.  I don’t like where your arm is.  You need to fix it.”

I swear to God, it took everything I had to stop myself from saying: “Are you fucking for real?”  But I didn’t.  And I awarded myself Mommy Points for that.  She continued:

“You need to put your arm across my back.  But not there.  Over.  No, down.  No, I mean up.  Put your hand around my belly.  No, Mommy!  That tickles.  Oh Mommy, you’re such a silly goose.  Move my pillow over.  Don’t lay on my pillow.  Mommy.  You’re breathing on me.  Okay.  Good job, Mommy!  Now it’s perfect.”

And she fell right to sleep.  I, of course, was completely uncomfortable and lay mostly awake for the next few hours.  Why didn’t I move once she was asleep?  Come on.  You know better.  Don’t be daft.  If I moved, or even took a deep breath, she would stir and mumble “Stop moving, Mommy.  Don’t wake me up.”

Wanna hear my “silver lining” for this batshit crazy dictatorship in which I live?  SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE WANTS.  And she’s not shy about asking for it.  Yes!  I’m a good mother and I’m raising a strong girl!



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