Once, when teenaged Jack was little, I had him strapped to my chest in one of those forward-facing baby carriers while I tried to work, and someone remarked that they’d heard a theory that babies think they’re appendages of their mothers’, at least until they’re mobile.

It’s sounds hokey to me now, but at the time, it certainly felt like we were attached more or less permanently. I remember getting to the end of the day and not wanting to be touched anymore, by anyone ever. Completely unencumbered by the weight of another person, or someone clutching my leg or my blouse or even laying a hand on my shoulder.

Now, of course, the norm is something more along the lines of the occasional side-hug or fist bump, so my issues with being touched have waned.