True Love
So many of my old columns have been on my mind these days, and this one — which I wrote with Valentine’s Day in mind fourteen years ago — has always been one of my favorites. Our life looks very different now, but I remember each of these things like they were just yesterday, and the sentiments still hold true for me. Happy Valentine’s Day to you all!
I think it’s fair to say intimacy tends to mean a certain thing to most people, especially around Valentine’s Day, but a different kind of intimacy is what I had in mind recently as a small bottom waggled at me impatiently, waiting to be cleaned after using the potty, while another boy yelled from another bathroom that he, too, was done and needed to be helped with cleaning himself.
Here in the intimacy of our family, and in all other families I would imagine, especially those with very young children, bodies and their parts are rarely private things. What with diaper changes and potty training and bath time and breastfeeding and little ones who charge into the bathroom while I’m in the shower yelling, “I need Mama!” and then fling the shower curtain aside with gusto and a huge smile that clearly says, “I know you’re so happy to see me, Mom!” it sometimes seems very Garden of Eden-ish around here.
I remember thinking I’d really come up with something good when I instituted the rule that we only talk about potty things in the bathroom. That way, I figured, I wasn’t stifling anyone’s need to ask real questions about real issues involving private things, and at the same time I was teaching that there is a time and a place for everything, and let’s be appropriate and gentlemanly please.
Somehow, even though we’re still constantly reminding, “We only talk about that in the bathroom!” such topics continue to be snickered at during meals, during play, during movies, during church.
The questions needing to be answered and the conversations needing to be had about bodily functions and privacy and modesty and personal space and why one should “remember, you must never touch a lady like that!” are, I have to admit, one of the more interesting parts of being a mom to me. I actually kind of love when I can help my boys understand better the beauty and wonder with which we were all made, and the respect and dignity all bodies deserve.
But there’s more than that, too, in regards to intimacy: As I write this, my two-year-old is sitting on my lap, having sought me out in a moment of anguish over it not being his turn with a certain toy; now calmed, he rests his head on my shoulder and sighs and rubs the hem of my shirt absentmindedly between his fingers — being so familiar with another and knowing where to find comfort and unqualified, unconditional love is a very intimate thing.
As is being accepted for just who you are. I’ve often thought, in darker moments, how little the boys realize how very unlovable they make themselves sometimes and how very blessed they are that I love them as I do, in spite of their difficult parts. But of course the same goes for me — I am no model of an easy-to-love person, and the ones I love the most see my very worst sides, often, and still keep me and love me and seek me out, for their own comfort, yes, but even sometimes just for my company.
Like in the peaceful quiet of the early morning, when I’m nursing the baby in bed, it is not uncommon for a certain small boy to walk sleepily into our bedroom, climb up next to his dad and sit cross-legged and tufty-haired to tell us about the dreams he had last night. It never seems to matter that I’m unshowered, that my teeth are unbrushed, that I’m feeling appealing and attractive to no one. These small moments are each treasures, and this way of being with each other, stripped down to just what we are, in trust and love, is such a healthy, happy, and wholesome way to live.
I don’t think it’s crazy to think that the sharing and caring of bodies and selves here, now, in this context of love and commitment and responsibility, will help teach and reinforce for our sons that such intimacy, precious and vulnerable as it is, is always and only safest within the context of a conscious and committed decision to love another, to give oneself sincerely for another, desiring only the good of the beloved.
At least, that’s my fervent and lofty hope, as I clean and care for these little bodies and bottoms that I know better than my own. Here, where seemingly nothing is sacred, everything is.
Kate and her husband have seven sons ages 20, 18, 16, 14, 13, 10, and 6. Email her at kmtowne23@gmail.com.










