A Hugging Confession

I am not a hugger.

I believe this is one reason why I am somewhat addicted to blogging and can easily pour my heart out with every tippity-tap of a key.

I can handle a virtual hug.

I can vent about the ugliness of grief or the insanity of day-to-day life and take in each and every comment I receive of support, or of I've been there, or geez am I glad I'm not there, and feel completely comfortable accepting as many comment hugs as are dished out from the caring people who read my words.

But a real hug?  I believe, to quote my mother, I am like "hugging a piece of plywood."  Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy doesn't it??

Let me digress here to stop you from feeling sorry for my touch-deprived children and husband.  I hug them, I hug them all constantly and accept their hugs with open arms.  I can do this with ease.  Go ahead and psychoanalyze.  If you figure out why please let me know (private email is preferred to a public comment explaining my warped psychological state to the blogosphere).

I believe I cannot hug because I have wound myself a bit too tight.  I am clutching pieces finely crafted into staying together.  One of those pieces fears that if I fall into a hug, the rest of them may come tumbling down and we just can't have that happen.  There is too much to do, plus I have a tendency towards the "ugly cry."

So yesterday we went to our first day of three year-old storytime and I believe the mix of a class brimming with little girls, explaining they are not twins too many times and a touch of pms, caused me to be acutely aware of that ever-present hole.  Sitting there, singing the pizza song, I pictured being the triplet mom I should be and my world stopped.   My boys, being the Mommy-loving little people that every mom with a son told me they would be, instinctively came to my rescue.  Sawyer into my lap, chubby baby arms circling my neck, and Parker balancing on my knee, skinny elbows folding over my shoulder, and those little boy hugs?

They sent my pieces crumbling.

Without a single word, swimming in a sea of three year-olds shouting out their favorite pizza topping, my boys told me what all those well-meaning huggers have been trying to say for years.

You are safe.  You are surrounded by love.  Let the pieces fall.

And I did.