or “Keep your hands off my butt.” I’d love to have set the maximum at one, but we passed that marker long, long ago. It was kind of sweet when my girls were breast-feeding infants and would obliviously explore the terrain of my chest, neck, face, you name it, but I should have carved out a real line beneath the underwire at some point. Hugs and kisses are great (always—please don’t stop that, darlings), but what I’ve experienced was quite often akin to groping. I would tell myself it was normal: They are just curious and attached to me. All good, right? But in truth I didn’t want my body to be open for action, day and night. From the very beginning, le corps of a French mother is fiercely protected, whether through a limit on the breast-feeding, the kibosh on children in their parents’ bed, or the all-important message that Mommy’s skirt is exquisite and one shouldn’t stand on it, especially when she’s in it. (Note: French moms almost never sport les sweatpants.) Until very recently my kids would often sit on me, hang on me, swing from me.
