I’m writing this sat on my bed, with a sick 7 year old, 2 dogs and Disney XD on the tv. I have a corner of the bed, a smidge of space, in my own room.

This is what it’s pretty much like at all times now I’m a married parent of two.

I can’t remember what it was like pre kids, when I had the luxury of going to the toilet alone, when I could sit on the sofa without someone climbing over me to get something, when I went to a changing room alone. All of these things, and more, are distant, distant memories.

Somewhere along the line, probably during the labour situation when you’re not exactly ‘with it’ I think Mamas must sign a contract handing over all rights to personal space. Your body becomes public property (if the public are the people living in your house) and there is very little you can do about it. Although, to be fair to the kids, the husband is pretty touchy feely too.

They must get it from him.

Driving becomes a game of human twister, his hands resting on my legs, fighting for elbow space, a ‘move over before I crash’ kind of thing. He must be touching my feet with his in bed to fall asleep (no, I have no idea either) and my backside must be slapped at every passing opportunity.

My son likes to sit right against me. Arms, legs, shoulders all resting on me. My daughter likes to tangle her feet in mine. Combine this with the husband, it’s like living with three octopus. Octopi? Whatever, sea creature with frigging hundreds of arms.

Touching me. All. The. Bloody. Time.

Don’t get me wrong, I love that they’re all so open and loving, I really do, and it’s a good thing that they can express themselves so freely. But sometimes, jesus, sometimes, I just want them all to back the hell off.

My own personal space is no longer mine, my body was practically given up to science (or small people, whichever way you want to look at it) when I peed on that stick all those years ago, my ears sometimes feel like they’re bleeding from the sheer constant-ness of noise and my senses are always on full alert. If you want the best kind of spy/interrogator, get a mother, she will be able to tell you in a nanosecond if shit is about to go down.

Of course, on the rare occasions that my darlings are away from me, I crave their touch like a drug addict, missing that chubby little mitt that can sneak into my own hand without me even realising he’s done it (the boy, not the bloke) my teenager giving up social media time to plait my hair and chat about the day, even the husband and his weird foot fetish is comforting sometimes.

I think Johnny said it best, to Baby….

 “Look, spaghetti arms. This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don’t go into yours, you don’t go into mine. You gotta hold the frame.”

Except when I want you to, then it’s fine.

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