Fight Me

I was hanging out with Sean recently and showed him how my daughter likes to be “punched.” Meaning I make a big display of winding up my swing and then my fist barely makes contact with her chest or tummy as I yell, “punch!” and she giggles herself silly.

“How did you even discover that she likes this?”

“I punched her,” I shrugged.

There’s lots of ways to show affection. It can be kind words or cuddles or cooking for your loved ones… In my house growing up our primary displays of affection were play fighting. There’s an age gap between me and my brother so when he was little my dad would hold my arms so I couldn’t deflect his punches. Not like his little two year old fists could actually hurt. As his growth outpaced mine and we became more evenly matched we ganged up on our dad instead. He’d pull us off him and throw us onto the couch or bed of whatever. We’d have fake karate fights, akin to fencing instead of actual sword fighting.

This is what I grew up with and what I plan to do with my children. Especially because studies show that roughhousing is good for brain development. So as my daughter has grown a little bigger and a little sturdier we’ve upgraded from raspberries and foot nibbles to “punches” and “body slams” onto the bed. I cannot stress enough that I promise I’m still really gentle. For now…

Dakota grew up with younger sisters so he had a very different childhood than I did. When we met in college me throwing a punch that I pull just before hitting his face, just to show I could’ve landed it and he wasn’t ready, well I guess to him that was strange behavior. Once we made a bet that he couldn’t pin me. And he couldn’t. He was obviously bigger and stronger and I couldn’t get off the ground, but he couldn’t get both my shoulders down, which I think is the real rule in wrestling but even if it’s not it was the rule in my house.

I pretend punch him a lot less than I did ten years ago but every now and then he just looks so punchable. He chases me around our house and I try to use the furniture as obstacles in his way to keep him from grabbing me for as long as possible, which is never very long. He holds me and I can’t escape. I throw my head forward, pretending like I’m going to headbutt my way to freedom. Or sometimes I act like I’ll knee his balls.

Sometimes as we peacefully sit on the couch I lean over and bite him, gently, while looking up at him. We lock eyes and I slowly press my teeth together harder and harder until he pushes my face off of him.

We shower together and he slaps my hands away when I try to spread his buttcheeks.

It’s not listed as one of the five love languages but maybe it should be. If you won’t square up with me in the middle of our kitchen I don’t want you. And don’t let me catch you staring at me lovingly for too long or inevitably I’ll give you a look of disgust and scoff, “You got a problem? Fight me.”