Come Here and Give Your Mother a Hug

Lydia’s always been a snuggler.  As a newborn, she wanted to sleep on us, and as she has gotten older she still  has a snuggling mode that she goes into when she’s tired or nervous or shy: head on my shoulder, thumb in mouth, other hand twirling her hair.  And I’m not going to lie: I love it.  There’s nothing like the feeling of that little body relaxing against me, the heaviness of her head, the warm cuddliness of her.  A friend of mine who has a more independent girl used to go into her daughter’s room while she was sleeping and pick her up just so that she could hold her as long as she wanted.  I totally get that, and would have done the exact same thing.

This past weekend, I went to Philadelphia for two days, and when I came home, all I wanted was some quality Lydia snuggle time.  I got home too late the first night to see her, and the next morning we were all rushing around, work and daycare and commuting.  So today, my day off, I gave her her milk and plopped her down on the couch.  MOMMY SIT, she said imperiously as she always does, patting the cushion next to her.  I sat down, and grabbed her shoulder so she’d lean in on me while she was drinking.  She pushed me away.  NO, she said, MOMMY SIT, patting a part of the cushion that was a little bit further away.  I felt like a boy on an awkward first date, scooting myself just out of reach but feeling pretty resentful about it.

A few hours later, we were playing in the kitchen, and I found myself actually asking her to give me a hug.  “Mommy needs a hug,” I told her, kneeling on the hardwood and holding my arms out to her like some sort of absurd Dr. Evil impersonator.  At first she had other ideas, but finally she ran over and threw herself at me, giving me the shortest hug on earth before running back across the room to continue playing.

And it’s fine.  Really.  She’s two now, her own little person.  Like everything else, it’s wonderful to watch her getting more independent by the day, and there are plenty of years left where she’ll need to snuggle with me when she’s tired or sad.  But good god, what’s goign to become of me when she’s a teenager and those snuggling days are far behind us?  Better start adding a few nickels to the therapy jar, eh?

I'm all like "Give me a freakin' hug"

But Lydia's got her ladybug backpack on and is basically ready to move out.

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