Phases and cycles.

Not too many moons ago, the boy was hands-off. Don't touch me, mommy. Please don't pat my back (at least I got a please, right?). Don't hold me. Funny stuff, really, coming out of a three-year-old's mouth. What's really funny is how I often let it hurt my feelings. Especially now that that phase is over.

I come from a basically over-affectionate family. My mother is Mexican, the youngest of 13, most of whom married loud, boisterous, demonstrative Italians. Which means, that at every wedding, weekend dinner, funeral, reunion or casual visit, I would be expected to kiss and hug every single relative (and there were a lot of them), whether I knew them or not. It's just what we did. So very different than my father's very reserved Dutch upbringing. At times, I shied away from the over-affectionation, so to speak. I didn't know half my relatives' names, and I'm expected to do the double-kiss and hug? And mean it? Quite quickly though, the more I did it (under my mother's approving eye) it made me feel adult, like I belonged in some super-secret (vast) family that knew everyone intimately enough to welcome them in arms, even if this was the first time we'd met. It's part of my upbringing that has branded me deeply -- I tend to judge people not by the quality of their handshakes, but by the quality of their hugs. The tentative, half-shoulder squeeze just doesn't do it for me. I'm a two-armed, all the way around, bear hug kind of girl, regardless if you're family or friend. And I expect it in return. 

Consequently, I've passed some of that on to Grif. Perhaps sometimes unwittingly so. That boy we met at the park the other day? As we said goodbye, I told Grif to give Louis a hug and tell him thanks for playing with me. Which he did. Enthusiastically, genuinely, without pause. I ask him to do this frequently, obviously for close family, but really, for anyone with whom we've just spent a few hours... my friends, Jim's friends, a sweet boy we met at a park. He passes this on -- bunny and dog (his go-to companions) often give kisses, hug each other, cuddle with us. He pats their backs, rubs their tummies, worries about them. He worries about Thomas the Train, when we're watching DVDs and Thomas needs help. He constantly tells me how his Wocket is sad, although we can never fully figure out why. He fusses over his trains that have "bruises." His capacity for care, at just over three years old, stuns me. And heartens me. I so want him to grow up to be "good" -- courageous and considerate, strong and dependable. I want his heart to always be this full of compassion and love and simple, innocent goodness. And although I know that this is not totally possible (he will be a teenager someday), I hope that his heart will always be this big. 

Now, his ever-present litany is a request to be held. First thing in the morning, last thing at night. Mommy, will you hold me? Yes, honey, I'd love to hold you.