Alamy
I'm a tactile person. Unashamedly touchy-feely. I give a mean bear-hug and will happily indulge anyone who looks clean and comes within grappling distance. Unless you scrimp on the deodorant there is no discrimination. Otherwise, I'll have you smothered before you can say 'wooah personal space'.
Pregnant with Finje, I figured all the brain-nullifying, über-vomiting, pelvis-destroying, breast-annihilating, sleep-depriving, stretch marking grimness of motherhood would all evaporate into blissful irrelevance by the multitude of cuddles and unconditional love I was bound to receive in return.
I'd seen those adverts. Mother and baby tangled up together in a vision of intimate togetherness. Unified by DNA, napping together, clinging to one another in a demonstration of love that neither man nor beast could tear asunder. Little nippers on parent's laps, hands entwined, angelic heads resting on shoulders, listening in concentration to bedtime stories.
I was definitely up for all that.
But apparently nobody told Finje.My baby was never happier than when she was left alone in her basket (Moses basket, not dog basket, obviously) to ponder the world into which she had been violently shoved. Had you mistakenly confused her with a normal baby and picked her up for a cuddle, she would most likely have rendered you partially deaf with her screams of dissatisfaction.
As she got older, there was minimal improvement. She still preferred to kiss her Lego cat than cuddle her parents. In fact, until very recently, if she deigned to reciprocate when forced into an embrace, a couple of seconds of tolerance would follow, then she would squirm like an eel on a hook. This resulted in you holding her in less of a maternal embrace and more of a Half Nelson, forced to release your grip before Social Services were called.
Finje is now five and has softened a little in her old age. She will occasionally honour us with an unprovoked demonstration of affection. Granted, she usually wants something or has a fever but beggars can't be choosers.
This morning though, I awoke to Finje stroking my face and whispering in my ear. 'I love you mama' Aww thought I, heart melting, 'I love you more than Spunk!'
Now, again, before you dial Childline, you should know that 'Spunk' is an unfortunately named but granted salty licorice sweet here in Germany. Google it.
Finje loves it.
But she loves me more!