My mum is shorter than me. She has been for many years, since I passed her growing through my teen years. She can only blame herself really, for marrying a man nearly a foot taller than her.
It means when she hugs me or my sister, she kinda has to reach up. And we have to bend down a little, or get pulled down if we’re not quick enough.
My mum likes hugs. She is a hugger. My dad too, but he is just happy to take what he’s given. My mum demands them. It was like an unwritten primary rule of the home, that hugs were very. important. not to be done away with under any circumstances.
Those days when I’d come home moping or grumpy or sad (which happened quite regularly – teenage years are hard) she’d look at me and say, “I don’t think you’ve had enough hugs today”. And then there’d be no way for me to get away from her until she’d done and hugged me.
And so one hugger has raised another hugger. This physical-touch-is-my-love-language girl needs hugs to make it through the day, any day, even the good ones. Especially the good ones. Now I regularly command Rasmus to hug me, make him laugh when he pulls away after the normal amount of hug-time and I’m still holding on tight. And when a good friend hugs me, gosh it just makes something inside me sing.
Because my mama spoke love and acceptance and comfort and pride with her hugs. And each new hug received or given is a reminder of that. A reminder of that assurance of our value.
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I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo for her weekly Five Minute Friday: “In just five minutes. Tell me all about what your mama did that made her yours…” No stopping, no correcting, no editing. Just write. Will you join in?
