The Day The Hugs Died
This morning might have marked the moment I've been fearing, when my kindergartner, Curt, decides maybe it isn't so cool to give Dad a hug in the hallway before he bebops into the classroom.
When we first enrolled him in pre-kindergarten, a big goodbye production ensued morning after morning. One last hug and one last kiss on the cheek almost always became the second-to-last hug and second-to-last cheek peck.
Last year, when I spent a few minutes in his class as part of the morning routine, he wanted me to pick him up, smush him up against the all and pepper his cheek with kisses. Then, when I got about halfway out the door, he'd want one more hug and kiss before I departed.
I suspected, and dreaded, that the moment would come when the big production got downsized.
We still have our little time together in the car on the way to school.
Last year, it was a long drive to China Elementary, with a choice of about a half dozen routes. Curt would pick the route.
Now that he's in Sour Lake Elementary, there's really only one route, so we focus on making observations along the way.
During the months of cooler weather, there's a hawk that sits on a power line about halfway to school. Some mornings he's there, and some mornings he's not. It's always a Big Deal when he's there, most likely scanning a nearby field in search of tasty rodents.
When we get out of the car in the campus parking lot, Curt chooses the route to class. Sometimes we go through the cafeteria, and other times we go under the outdoor walkway, with a chance to see what we call The Cowbell Truck. There's a silver pickup truck that has a cowbell on the trailer hitch. Sometimes we see it, and sometimes we don't. It's always a Big Deal when we see it.
When we get outside the classroom door, he always asks me the same thing: "Where are you going?"
And the answer is almost always the same: "I'm going to work, and I can't wait to see you tonight!"
Up until recently, we did the one more kiss and the one more hug.
Then about a week ago, just before we got to the door, he said, "I don't want a hug today."
I made him give me one anyway. I needed a hug, damnit!
He still asked me the same question, and I gave him the same answer, and then he bebopped into class.
This morning, he told me he didn't wanted to hug, asked the question, got the answer and then quickly bebopped unhugged into class.
And I let him go.
As time goes on, there will be more letting go, until I finally have to let him go for good, off to college, getting married or wherever his life's pathway takes him.
For now, I'm going to be thankful for everything I get and let him go at his own pace.
Otherwise, someday, he might just go and never come back.
When we first enrolled him in pre-kindergarten, a big goodbye production ensued morning after morning. One last hug and one last kiss on the cheek almost always became the second-to-last hug and second-to-last cheek peck.
Last year, when I spent a few minutes in his class as part of the morning routine, he wanted me to pick him up, smush him up against the all and pepper his cheek with kisses. Then, when I got about halfway out the door, he'd want one more hug and kiss before I departed.
I suspected, and dreaded, that the moment would come when the big production got downsized.
We still have our little time together in the car on the way to school.
Last year, it was a long drive to China Elementary, with a choice of about a half dozen routes. Curt would pick the route.
Now that he's in Sour Lake Elementary, there's really only one route, so we focus on making observations along the way.
During the months of cooler weather, there's a hawk that sits on a power line about halfway to school. Some mornings he's there, and some mornings he's not. It's always a Big Deal when he's there, most likely scanning a nearby field in search of tasty rodents.
When we get out of the car in the campus parking lot, Curt chooses the route to class. Sometimes we go through the cafeteria, and other times we go under the outdoor walkway, with a chance to see what we call The Cowbell Truck. There's a silver pickup truck that has a cowbell on the trailer hitch. Sometimes we see it, and sometimes we don't. It's always a Big Deal when we see it.
When we get outside the classroom door, he always asks me the same thing: "Where are you going?"
And the answer is almost always the same: "I'm going to work, and I can't wait to see you tonight!"
Up until recently, we did the one more kiss and the one more hug.
Then about a week ago, just before we got to the door, he said, "I don't want a hug today."
I made him give me one anyway. I needed a hug, damnit!
He still asked me the same question, and I gave him the same answer, and then he bebopped into class.
This morning, he told me he didn't wanted to hug, asked the question, got the answer and then quickly bebopped unhugged into class.
And I let him go.
As time goes on, there will be more letting go, until I finally have to let him go for good, off to college, getting married or wherever his life's pathway takes him.
For now, I'm going to be thankful for everything I get and let him go at his own pace.
Otherwise, someday, he might just go and never come back.
posted by Brian Pearson at 10:39 AM
2 Comments:
As hard as it is to let go, you are a very wise daddy. The rituals will change over the years, but those connections made now will be long lasting ones. I suspect it was important for him to know that you trust him enough to handle some of the separations in life for himself in the way that best fits his needs at the moment.
Hang in there!
my 6 (almost 7) year old and my 5 year oldkiss my cheek every morning and tell me they love me as they get out of my car.. My 8 year old cant even be bothered to tell me she loves me but i make sure i tell her every morning before she walks away..
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