Every so often Beatrice goes through a bout of bathroom troubles. She's prone to constipation, and the worse it gets, the Worse It Gets. The number of hours the girl can go without setting foot anywhere near a toilet is downright unsettling. Her almost three-year-old will is made of shiny cold steel.
We cajole, we play pretend, we make a game out of it, and sometimes in the end - okay, often - when I see her dancing around with that telltale swivel I just swoop in and hoist her over my shoulder, running up the stairs and into the bathroom before she knows what hit her. Sometimes that works.
But sometimes it doesn't, and it gets so bad her legendary ability to deny her own bodily functions fails her and she pees on the living room rug. Twice in a row. That's when I begin to fray. That's when I start talking to her in the least helpful way imaginable, exhorting her to cut the crap, enough already, it's not a big deal, we all do it, lots of times a day in fact, just GO TO THE POTTY when you have to GO TO THE POTTY.
A few nights ago this happened. I was cleaning her up after an accident. I'd been haranguing her the whole time, peeling off her pants, you have to tell me when you have to go to the potty, balling up the wet socks, throwing them towards the hall, you can't do this anymore, this is not working.
She looked a bit shell shocked. It hit me that she would manage this better if she could. In that moment, she couldn't. Even though I was still angry, my rational mind tried to reel the whole thing in and mitigate the verbal damage I was doing.
Beatrice, I uttered through still-clenched jaws, Beatrice, I am really upset with you right now. But you know I love you all the time no matter what.
She looked up at me, so earnest and solemn in her full top-and-no-bottom splendor - a look that our family agrees is only cute when you are very young - wearing her stained purple shirt and nothing else. Surely she smelled like pee but I don't remember.
Well, when I'm upset, Mama, I like to have a hug.
Oh! That was it. My jaw slackened, I dropped down onto my knees, and she rushed in for a big squeeze, happy relief all over her face. She's a genius. She's also a genius hugger. All my helpless anger melted right down through my center and out my limbs in a matter of seconds.
Virginia Satir, the family therapist, said that we need four hugs a day to survive, eight to maintain, and twelve to grow. I repeat: twelve! It sounds a little extravagant. Also true.
So after I read this, I began counting. On Sunday I hit twenty discreet hugs with Beatrice before church started at 10:15. That didn't count all the lap sitting, leaning, climbing on, and general physical closeness that characterizes our time together. Of all my children, her temperament is the snuggliest.
But Gabriel and Frances? Oy. I might have squeezed in five or six hugs by the end of the day with Gabriel, but definitely no more than four with Frances. I started to get worried. Were they stunted?
I couldn't believe how hard it was to build in more hugs this week. Last week I started working part-time, and I've had to be away more than usual for orientation and trainings. After school activities extend their days. Frances had two sleepovers last weekend (not ideal, which is all I will say about that). When we are home together, I tell them to do things like practice piano and set the table and take a shower and they get annoyed at me. They do not always want a hug from their hygiene and homework enforcer.
I rarely write about Frances and Gabriel nowadays. The age of consent, I've decided, is eight. Gabriel will turn eight in two months and Frances has long since crossed that line. Their stories are theirs now; I can't tell you about them without first seeking their permission. And even then, I have to tread carefully. But Beatrice is still, in some ways, an extension of me. Through my little hug-counting exercise I've realized we are nearly always touching when together, so it is little surprise that writing about her feels as natural and uncomplicated as writing about myself.
But Gabriel and Frances? I have to reach out to hug them. They have this weird thing called personal space. They need time alone; they need time with their friends. I wish I could write about them. There is so much challenge and mystery in parenting these older, complicated, independent and sophisticated children. They change so fast. I am dizzy, and often at a loss. I sure could use your help. But - I have to honor them by giving them this space, by letting them tell their own stories more and more.
But I think it is safe to share with you that I realized most of the time, they do want an extra hug. Even if it seems like they don't. I grab them on their way through the kitchen and pull them close and usually that proves to be a really good idea.
Then Frances pushed me away earlier today and I thought to myself: gah! you! how will you get the hugs you need? Then, finally, it hit me: I am not the only hugger in your life. Duh. Mike and I are not the only ones doing the hugging. It seems so obvious but I hadn't thought of it. Today I am certain she hugged her grandma, her friends, a teacher. For all I know, she squeezed her way through thirty hugs. She has a rich life full of loving friends and teachers and family and much of it happens when I'm not around.
Weird. I know I gave them twelve hugs - and most likely many many more than that - every day when they were three and four years old. Now I might give them two. But what a strange feeling, a mix of relief and sadness and pleasure, to realize that they are getting plenty, enough to grow and grow ever farther afield. My wild weedy irrepressible children, out in the world, hugging away. Huh.
Let us hope that we have all been so well-hugged, we know how to give and receive what we need. Friends: tomorrow, don't settle for fewer than twelve.
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