Quit Fondling Me With Your Grubby Hands

Today at the store a rather unwashed stranger rubbed my pregnant belly. When I was 7 months pregnant with my second child, my brother-in-law’s aunt copped a feel on my butt at my sister’s wedding and announced I was having a boy based on how it felt (yeah, thanks, the three ultrasounds performed by medical professionals had already told me that). What is it about a pregnant body that makes people think it’s free for the fondling?

And it doesn’t stop when the baby is born. Last month my sister-in-law was at an airport with my 6-month old niece when an older lady, holding a baby herself, walked up and started touching my niece’s face. My sister-in-law discovered on the plane that the baby the woman was holding wasn’t even her own grandchild. It was just some random baby she had plucked out of his mother’s arms and started walking around with (why that mother allowed this is beyond me, but then again, I’ve never smacked anyone for rubbing my Buddah belly either).

American culture demands personal space. “Close talkers” are routinely avoided, physical contact among strangers or even casual acquaintances is considered rude and awkward, and even friends typically don’t touch each other beyond a hug hello or goodbye. Personally, I could snuggle with my children all day, and I fall asleep best when having my hair or back rubbed by my husband (a fact that caused some confusion early in my marriage when his intentions in such attentions were met with rather unexpected results…but that’s another blog altogether), but I don’t like to be touched by anyone besides my husband, my children, or children in my extended family. Yet by the time I deliver this baby in July, I will have spent 36 months of my adult life being caressed, prodded, and otherwise fondled by complete strangers.

Because all bets are off when a baby is involved—whether that baby is accessible or buried beneath layers of skin, fat, muscle, and amniotic fluid. So what does that say about us as Americans?

Are we so touch-deprived that we desperately seek the only outlet that seems acceptable—touching a baby who hasn’t learned that’s it isn’t socially acceptable and therefore won’t deck the intruder? Have we built up too many contact-free walls, set up our personal-space fences a little too wide around the perimeter? Maybe those baby rubbers and belly fondlers are really the key to fixing the disconnect that Americans feel toward each other, and if we all would just “get physical,” we would all respect each other a little more.

But I think those people are just socially inept and possibly a little bit crazy, and need to be taught boundaries. So don’t be surprised if you come up to rub my belly and I respond by grabbing your crotch.