One Moment in Time

Before I had a baby, I used to read about new mothers saying they were "touched out. " In general this referred to a lack of interest in sex or physical intimacy-- there is something so disgustingly Dr. Phil-ish about that phrase, "physical intimacy"--but it also extended to every day routine "closeness" to people. While the part of me that had never held a baby longer than twenty minutes at a family reunion found it hard to comprehend that level of physical saturation, I also fully expected it would be a huge problem for me. I'm not a touchy-feely person (sometimes to a fault), and I just assumed that my natural reaction to being suckled and cuddled twelve-plus hours would be to crave a sensory deprivation tank at the end of a day. Sort of like a switch being flipped, from MommyMommyMommy to Bam! Don't Touch Me.

I have to say, it hasn't at all been like that-- I think Mr. Milkweed has seen some side benefits to being the only person around here that can interact with me in a way that's grownup to grownup-- but I do still find myself craving that ubiquitous "two minutes' peace." Or, heck, let's get all crazy--- a couple of hours of peace, and, most importantly, solitude.

I have not been genuinely alone for a single second since some time in early February 2007, when "grownup to grownup" meant "adults only" and Eva slid down that chute from the holding pen of little cherubs up in Heaven. For nine months, she was there, and then she was born and has really, truly, gloriously been here for seven entire months. Oh, sure, there were times when I was by myself when I was pregnant, and there have been plenty of times since her birth when I've gone out to do this or that without the baby around, but the general M.O. of the average day has been that I am Eva's while she is awake, and Mr. Milkweed's when he comes home in the evening. For the most part, I really like that. I have yet to have any sort of "Oooh, ick, don't touch me" kind of visceral reaction to being touched by anyone, platonically or not. I often crave adult conversation at dinner. But wherever I am, some part of me is tuned in to where Eva is, what she might need, or how long Mr. Milkweed has had her and whether I should feel guilty that he's been on baby duty for however long. My cellphone is kind of a touchstone for this feeling-- it's like the thing outside my body that most resembles this interior feeling of constantly being "on call." And, as long as I'm carrying it with me, I kind of am, whether it's to Mr. Milkweed or my mother or whoever might call to chat.

Please, a word of reassurance-- if you call me, or have called me, continue to do so! I love to hear from all my friends and family, and rest assured that I make liberal use of the voicemail function when I truly just don't want to talk. But I'd love to be able, just for a little while-- maybe half a day-- to somehow just be stranded somewhere, with some kind of magical ability to forget everything, and just be by myself with nobody around.

I often find myself fantasizing about it. Sometimes, I'm locked in a huge, beautiful library, the kind with moving ladders and wall-to-wall Persian rugs and giant armchairs on a Scottish estate somewhere. Sometimes I'm in the midst of the hustle and bustle of a large city, sitting in a cafe completely surrounded with people but completely and blissfully anonymous to all of them. And sometimes, as cliche as it is, I'm on a deserted island, sitting in the sand watching the sun melt into the horizon. (I'll admit, in this particular fantasy I'm sitting in a lounge chair with an enormous tropical drink in my hand, but absolutely no sign of the civilization that produced these comforts. But whatever-- it's my imagination. It works that way.)

When the Tom Hanks movie Castaway came out back in 2000, I watched it with a sense of horror and profound discomfort, remarking to my friends that aside from the horrible plane crash and dissolved marriage aspect of it all, it was just so damn quiet. The director clearly wanted to impart to the audience a sense of the total and complete isolation that would go along with being deserted in that way, and filled the center of the movie with many a scene punctuated only by the sound of the waves. I shifted in my seat in the theater-- I was going crazy from the lack of sound, and found myself wishing for some of the saccharine movie music I'd often maligned in many other features. Only when he finally found the volleyball, named it Wilson, and began having conversations with it was I able to relax a little bit.

I have to tell you something. If I was on that island, with that ocean, and that killer view and gorgeous sky spread out before me with no hope of seeing another human being in the foreseeable future-- If I was in my imagination, where such things as lounge chairs and margaritas can suddenly appear and disappear at whim-- I would take that damn volleyball and chuck it clean into the Atlantic current. For a minute's peace, for a minute's solitude, for a minute's isolation free from thoughts or the physical presence of anyone I knew, I'd channel Gabriel Reece herself and make shark bait out of that volleyball.

Whitney Houston used to sing that with her "one moment in time" she'd "race with destiny." I say, screw destiny and give me a bubble bath in some nondescript hotel bathroom, cleaned by someone else and with nobody but room service at my beck and call. I'm not "touched out," but I'm more than ready to take a break from being so very available. Perhaps in a few years, when the kids are old enough to spend a weekend with their grandparents, I'll take some time to go off by myself and just "be" for a while. And maybe I'll slip and fall and contract temporary amnesia and forget all of my worries and contacts. And then maybe that margarita will appear. Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?