“Hello sweetie” I croon to my second grader as she emerges smiling from the school gates. I missed that gap-toothed grin today, its single dimple invitingly begging a kiss. “Í missed you, can I have a hug?” I ask, and without waiting for an answer pull her to me, stiff body reluctant in my arms. “Mo-om” she chants in the universal cry of kids exasperated by their mothers – and I set her free.
My delectable seven year old is as easy to cuddle as a hedgehog these days. She does not volunteer hugs or kisses and no longer curls herself in my lap to watch TV or sneaks into my bed in the mornings to mold herself to my drowsy form. Her long body is already too heavy to carry and even when a scraped knee paves the way for a medicinal hug and kiss, they are received with nonchalance.
Our close physical connection, that mother-child bond formed during nine months of pregnancy when my body miraculously grew hers, that tie formed during six hours of labor when I spilt her out into the world, that trust developed during twelve months of nursing while her eyes held mine and her tiny hand patted my breast, and that union pledged through years of cradling, carrying, snuggling, kissing and comforting, is fading.
Once, the connection was vital to her sense of security and well-being, but these days it is often met by the nose scrunch, the stone body or the catch-me-if-you-can speedy exit.
“It's my body. I decide” she flings the mantra I've taught her for protection right back at me, but I meet it on the rebound.
“Mommies have special privileges” I tell her, knowing that I'm paddling in murky water but continuing anyway, because how do I explain my need to hang on to her as she steps away? “We're allowed as many hugs and kisses as we want because of all our hard work carrying you in our tummies, giving birth and taking care of you.” She gives me 'the look' and I see her snarky tween version lurking not too far away.
It would be easy to take offence and back off, but I can't give up. There is something irresistible in her smallness, in her uninhibited delight in life and in those moments when she still needs me, which drive me to hold her tight and breathe her in. I steal a kiss or caress when I help her undress, when I place the towel around her shoulders after a shower, when I brush her hair or tag her in the pool. Sometimes she lingers a little and sometimes slithers away like a tadpole. I take what I can, cherishing the connection all the more as it slowly dwindles.
This physical separation is the ongoing and necessary prerequisite to her growing up and pulling away. I know it – but so soon? Is it already time for her to cross the road without holding my hand, “I know mom. Stop, look and listen. Look left and right the whole way, no running. When can I walk home on my own?”
When did a Hello Kitty plaster become more soothing than a kiss? Does she not need a welcoming hug after a long day away from me? Even the notion that she separates from me so easily precisely because of that strong bond that we built in the vital years, does not console my empty arms or leaky heart.
The detachment is all the more rending because she, the smallest of my three children, heralds the end of koala hugs, sugary breathed kisses and a small trusting hand placed in mine. My big kids, incredible as they are, are even less easy to hug, their bodies encumbered by the awkward nature of adolescence which makes hugging quick, practical and scarce. “Don't grow up so fast” I want to tell her, whilst knowing that to see our kids bloom and find their own potential is the greatest gift a mother can receive.
Sometimes, despite the psychological rationalizing and respect of personal space, I cannot help but grab Her Royal Cuteness and smother her with uninvited kisses and hugs. Despite her apparent reluctance, I have noticed something which fills me with joy – she smiles. She smiles as she squeals at me to stop the kissing and she smiles as she shrugs off my encircling arms. She smiles as I pick her up and swing her awkwardly around, laughing as we both fall to the floor. Her covert smiles relate her delight to be loved so and let me know that although she needs my touch less, I'm right to ignore those prickly hedgehog needles once in awhile and keep on stealing hugs and kisses.
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