It is a good thing my babies cried. 

Although I believed in theory that they needed copious amounts of skin to skin time, I doubt I would have followed through quite so diligently if there was not the added incentive of stilling the tempest. Although a three month old cannot articulate the angst, she feels good when you pick her up and snuggle. I am convinced she is responding to a deep need to be close to her mother. She is not making this stuff up.

I don't suggest that babies are constantly content when they are held, but it sure diminished the tear time at our house to keep the current baby in a sling. I heard enough speakers at conferences expound the emotional and physical benefits of breastfeeding and touch to pound the importance into my brain. I knew about oxytocin, and its almost magical ability to bond me with my nursling. I may berate myself for a litany of parental shortcomings, but of one thing I am sure. I held my babies. 

Yet there was no marriage group on my schedule, which was teeming with playdates back in the eighties, or any relationship books on my toy strewn coffee table. I figured I had paid plenty of attention to John in the very beginning. He could survive on hold for awhile. A long while.

But somewhere along the way I realized that he needs touch too. He did not resort to tantrums, like my obstreperous toddlers. Perhaps even he could not wrap his need for touch in acceptable words. Yet when I held the children at bay long enough to finally hold him, it felt good. I was shocked to learn that the only time a man is gifted  with oxytocin is during lovemaking. 

Husbands have a deep need to be close to their wives. They are not making this stuff up.

I cannot untangle the feelings, the actions and reactions of those years. But I wonder if some of the less than lovely ones were an adult version of crying.