Being Held and Letting Go
There are certain things about my kids that lead me to marvel at how different two individuals raised in the same house can be. I almost said 'two individuals raised with the same nurturing' in that last sentence, but of course that's not true. The time and attention that I have given each child has varied in quality and quantity--and the two are not directly proportional. (Think 'neurotic mother of one' versus 'slightly less neurotic mother of two' and you'll get the picture.)
My daughter has from birth been very physical, "playing with" her own strength and agility almost as much as she plays with her Little People. She will fall over backward but keep her head and shoulders from hitting the ground through a mix of precocious spatial awareness and superhuman abdominal strength. I remember the time my beloved and I allowed her (under close supervision) to hang by her six-month-old hands from the baby gate in the hallway. This may seem masochistic, but we had been made curious by her unusual feats of upper body strength. And she gurgled her pleasure at the opportunity to show off in this way.
My son, on the other hand, is just a tad on the clutzy side. He knocks himself over with fair frequency and can't seem to figure out how to get his shoes on the correct feet. He's thrilled to play baseball or kick a soccer ball around when encouraged to do so, but left to his own devices, he'd prefer to sit still and build with Duplos or draw pictures of cars and trucks.
This difference in physicality extends to their propensity toward affection as well. The little one loves to be held and cuddled, has from months of age given palpable hugs employing all of her limbs, and allows me to get right up next to her as I sing her bedtime song.
The big guy, on the other hand, often mis-times his kisses, planting the lips before unleashing the peck. Sometimes when I try to hold him close, he pushes against me with his arms in protest. This is most true at bedtime, when he typically says, "Just a minute, Mama," so he can assume his preferred "no touching" position before I sing to him.
Last night, I asked if I could snuggle him during our bedtime ritual. It had been a good day for both of us, which is to say that neither of us hated the other for more than a few seconds at a time, and I wanted to top it off with tenderness. He said OK but was clearly uncomfortable about ten seconds in.
"Maybe I can snuggle you instead, Mama," he said.
"Alright," I responded, shifting around as he directed me with his arms. It was the first time he had suggested this, and it had never occurred to me to approach a mother-son snuggle in this way. The feminist in me hates to think it, but could he have instincts for holding rather than being held at the tender age of 4?
I wound up with my head on his little shoulder and my forehead against his warm cheek. As I sang to him, I thought about the time when he would be too tall and too proud to be held. Perhaps the latter was already the case. But I smiled at the idea of him holding me, at 4, at 14, and even at 40.
My daughter has from birth been very physical, "playing with" her own strength and agility almost as much as she plays with her Little People. She will fall over backward but keep her head and shoulders from hitting the ground through a mix of precocious spatial awareness and superhuman abdominal strength. I remember the time my beloved and I allowed her (under close supervision) to hang by her six-month-old hands from the baby gate in the hallway. This may seem masochistic, but we had been made curious by her unusual feats of upper body strength. And she gurgled her pleasure at the opportunity to show off in this way.
My son, on the other hand, is just a tad on the clutzy side. He knocks himself over with fair frequency and can't seem to figure out how to get his shoes on the correct feet. He's thrilled to play baseball or kick a soccer ball around when encouraged to do so, but left to his own devices, he'd prefer to sit still and build with Duplos or draw pictures of cars and trucks.
This difference in physicality extends to their propensity toward affection as well. The little one loves to be held and cuddled, has from months of age given palpable hugs employing all of her limbs, and allows me to get right up next to her as I sing her bedtime song.
The big guy, on the other hand, often mis-times his kisses, planting the lips before unleashing the peck. Sometimes when I try to hold him close, he pushes against me with his arms in protest. This is most true at bedtime, when he typically says, "Just a minute, Mama," so he can assume his preferred "no touching" position before I sing to him.
Last night, I asked if I could snuggle him during our bedtime ritual. It had been a good day for both of us, which is to say that neither of us hated the other for more than a few seconds at a time, and I wanted to top it off with tenderness. He said OK but was clearly uncomfortable about ten seconds in.
"Maybe I can snuggle you instead, Mama," he said.
"Alright," I responded, shifting around as he directed me with his arms. It was the first time he had suggested this, and it had never occurred to me to approach a mother-son snuggle in this way. The feminist in me hates to think it, but could he have instincts for holding rather than being held at the tender age of 4?
I wound up with my head on his little shoulder and my forehead against his warm cheek. As I sang to him, I thought about the time when he would be too tall and too proud to be held. Perhaps the latter was already the case. But I smiled at the idea of him holding me, at 4, at 14, and even at 40.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 3:15 PM
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