Hugs

*Underlying Issues Series

He was coming at me covered in sweat. It wasn’t just his sweat. It was his sweat and his opponent’s sweat and the sweat of dozens of others who came before him. His arms were open wide and his smile was as big as my sudden panic. He was no longer walking. He trotted toward me, bouncing in victory, droplets spraying from his face, arms and shoulders. I was so proud. I love him so much. But he was…well…soggy.

***

All four of my kids have participated in a wide variety of high school sports. I have my favorites (sports, not children). For me picking favorites is not about analyzing their levels of skillful aptitude. Hampered by the genetics of parents best described as “enthusiastic” rather than “athletic,” my kids have an uphill battle to achieve success in sports. My rankings are based on my enjoyment as a parent in the stands. I am such a selfish human that I can even make my kids’ sports all about me.

Volleyball is my favorite. It moves fast with little downtime between points. They blow the whistle twice for every point, which seems excessive. When the ball hits the court floor seven feet out of bounds, does the ref really need to blow with her diaphragm in a confined gym with concrete walls resulting in enhanced acoustical vibration? We all know the damn point is over. Three of my four have played volleyball in high school. The football offensive lineman feels vertically challenged, and does not believe that his many hours in the weight room have made him particularly springy. He is more of a “pick a fight with a black bear” type.

A good friend with a son older than my oldest gave me some solid parental advice before my kids reached high school. “Avoid sports where the contests are called ‘meets.’ Unless you want to spend hours watching the mediocre performances of other people’s kids hoping to get a glimpse of your own kid’s few allotted seconds of competition, sports with meets must be discouraged.” She was right. Last spring one of my sons brought a portable charcoal grill to his track meet so he and the other throwers could enjoy brats between shot put rounds.

***

My soggy son who approached me with open arms had just pinned his opponent during his few allotted seconds at his wrestling meet. This particular Saturday meet had over a dozen schools participating necessitating weigh-ins at 6am and trophy presentations 13 hours later. My son’s win came somewhere in the middle after countless wrestlers had deposited fluids on that mat (at least they stop the proceedings to wipe up the blood when they notice it). We learned years ago with our first wrestler that they must shower immediately after meets or practices to avoid ringworm and other fungal and parasitic entanglements. So when he came at me, open arms, my pride from his performance was eclipsed by my awareness that he was bringing me secretions of countless teens.

I held up both of my hands in victory encouraging an enthusiastic double high-five. He slapped my hands with his, and for a split second, I thought I was a 30-second scrubbing in the men’s room from remaining sanitary. But the high-five was just a precursor to the full-body squeezy hug he applied lifting my sneakers from the floor. Never before have I experienced such a feeling of simultaneous pride and disgust. I congratulated him excitedly, asked him how many hours until his next match, then set out to determine if high school science departments have nuclear decontamination chambers. In our current societal environment, a spectator-dad showering in a boy’s locker room would have been met with skepticism and legal consequences.

***

All of my kids, all of their friends, and from what I gather, most teenagers and young adults, are fans of “thrifting.” When I was a teenager, I would not have been caught dead in a Goodwill. Now being the best thrifter earns a spot in the yearbook. When several of my kids returned from hours of thrifting during winter break, I asked my daughter what discarded treasures she had procured. She gleefully held up garments and trinkets showing me her impressive plunder. I was excited for her. When she tugged at the collar of the shirt she was wearing, my excitement turned to horror. It seems pre-worn clothes washing is a requirement only for compulsive germ-o-phobes like me. When she hugged me in appreciation for taking an interest in her successful shopping experience, I smiled and hugged her back. I then excused myself and headed to the bathroom for my second shower of the day.

***

My oldest son is consistently our best hugger. He approaches with the goofiest grin on his face. His smile signifies comfort, safety and appreciation. He hugs tightly, carefully increasing pressure to make sure he doesn’t startle or injure. Once he has reached maximum hug pressure, he sways back and forth a bit, and holds the hug for what seems like a most sincere amount of time. He is good. It’s like he took a seminar in internal familial physical intimacy.

My third child, the black-bear fighter, is the master of the quick, bro-dap hugs you see on football sidelines. I receive a back slap from both hands with no other arm contact while he is sure to jab me with his pectorals. I think he does that just in case I don’t notice him flexing as he walks around the house shirtless lest the weight room dedication be all for naught.

Four kids, four hugs styles, experiences and intentions. As though that is not confusing enough, my wife conveys lots of unspoken messages through her well-polished hugging techniques. There are hugs of gratitude and hugs of disappointment. There are hugs of empathy, hugs of connection, and hugs of obligatory greetings and parting. I suppose my favorite marital hugs are skin-on-skin naked hugs. There are hugs when she really wants a hug, hugs when she knows I really need a hug, and hugs when the very last thing she wants to do is give me a hug. Kind of like how Hawaiians use Aloha to mean lots of different things, a hug from my wife requires some astute and attentive deciphering. As long as I wear a beard, at least I don’t have to do much kiss deciphering.

I never would have imagined that something as instinctual and ingrained as a hug between family members could be so complicated. Hugs are not necessarily effortless, but even in their complexity, they are an incredible blessing, and one I’ve learned to never take for granted. I am in my 50s. Like most of us with some tread worn off our tires, I have faced conflict, struggles and turmoil. I have put my family through unnecessary trauma. Life has not turned out to be the perfect, carefree fairytale I imagined. I have learned that as long as I can take more steps forward than the stumbles backwards, I will be fine. I am growing in contentment with that as my measure of success.

My wife and kids still hug me, in their unique and communicative ways. So what if a hug occasionally means an unplanned shower? Who cares if hug variety keeps me on my toes? Hug variety means I get a lot of hugs.

I am really skilled at ruminating about the past and fixating on the future. Thinking about my family hug practices might seem like a waste of time. But for me, fixating and ruminating on hugs from people who love me seems like time well spent.

As long as my life is filled with hugs, it is hard to imagine how anything else can matter.

*This essay is from the “Underlying Issues Series.” Just because I have moved past alcohol doesn’t mean I don’t have lots of  room for growth, and lots of underlying issues to explore. If you are down with this blend of authenticity and self deprecation, please subscribe. If you don’t need help finding sobriety, you can ignore all the alcoholism stuff, and just read about my underlying issues that led to the addiction.

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