Snuggling Required

I've been thinking a lot lately about our first language. That of physical touch. It is the initial way we communicate with our babies. The first sign of our love and care. Baby Lincoln is happiest cuddled in my arms. Children never tire of affection.

Days ago, amid the tumult that accompanies any Wicke family gathering, Griffin began to wail. The next thing I knew he beelined from the backyard through the family room on his way upstairs, crying loudly the whole time. I looked to Mr. Wicke for explanation. "They were playing..."

But as any mother will tell you, she can identify the kind of cry her children emit. This one was not an attention getter. I handed the baby to Mr. Wicke and followed Griff upstairs. His bedroom door was closed. He has taken to crying in private as of late. It breaks my heart.

I quietly opened the door to find him on the second story of his fort, lying on his belly, still crying. When he saw me come in he grunted and turned his back to me. Words would not do. I could see that, so as noiselessly as possible, I climbed the ladder of his fort and without a sound lay down beside him. Griffin is too ticklish to have his back rubbed, so I ran my fingers through his hair and kissed the back of his neck until he quieted enough to tell me what happened. Then we climbed back down to clean the wound behind his ear and the scrape on his leg, and although he is getting a little too big to be carried anymore, he acquiesced to being carried as far as the stairs, where at last he had had enough of being babied and ran back out to play, healed.

Later that night, when Logan came down with a fever and, feeling miserable, made her way to our bedroom, I knew exactly what she needed. I gave her some medicine and then curled up next to her in her makeshift bed on our floor. She, unlike her brother, loves to have her back tickled, and so I ran my fingers up and down, across her shoulderblades and down her arm until her breathing evened and slowed, telling me she had, at last, fallen back asleep.

Now, when the baby cries, I move to him, lift him in my arms, kiss his face, pat his back, and soothe him. When necessary I feed him, his body close to mine, his face near my breast, his warm breath on my skin, and I am grateful that my body can be a source of life, a healer, a comforter and a cure. That it can silently say, "I am here. I am yours. You are safe. I love you." The language I never want them to forget.