I made a meme once that said I need 20 minutes where everyone gets their freakin’ hands off me.

I was wrong.

I need longer. Much longer. Like 4 hours. AT LEAST 4 glorious hours.

I’m an affectionate, Sicilian mother. Don’t misunderstand me – aggressive hugging and kissing is my jam.

But I’ve realized that in the day to day grind of motherhood – touching has its limits.

I mean, at some point we want agency over our own bodies without tiny people sitting on our fat roll, using their tiny toes to swipe us out of the the Instagram app.

And yes, I know this phase will pass and that I’ll miss it. It’s like childbirth, we forget about the tearing and screaming and cussing at our husbands and just remember the sweet moments of skin to skin.

But for now, I’m gone. Before you can say, “More crackies?” and “Uh oh, poop!” you’ll hear my wheels peeling out of the driveway.

I want you to know that I love you all, very much, but I’m getting the hell out of here. I’m going to a place where, God willing, no one will try to get into my lap, then get off, then get on, then get off, then get on and then sit on my left boob like that’s an actual thing people do. Where, God willing, no one will elbow me in the face, sneeze in my eyeballs, try to gain leverage by pulling on my hair, shove their pacifiers into my cleavage, hang on my clothes, and get peanut butter on my shirt I just got out of the dryer. A place where I can choose to use my limbs however I choose! So farewell to you all. I’ll be back when I feel like it or at least when daddy texts me wondering what we’re doing for dinner.

Now here I am, my four hours almost up, refusing to admit – I’m missing them a little.