Hug me

I have a confession to make.

And I make this one with more anxiety than I would admitting to getting angry with my ex (which happens, even in our "amicable" split) or envious of friends who still have living parents, or a night of irresponsible, torrid sex with someone I don't know well (I'll leave you guessing).

When he's here, and he asks me, I lie down on the twin bed, next to my 12 year old son, and put my arms around him.

Until he asks me to leave, and I boot out the cat, and close the door gently, and say: "Good night, sweetie. I'll see you in the morning)."

Lots of boy kids Mr. C's age don't want their mom anywhere near their almost adolescent shoulders. But both his father and I have noticed that this boy needs a lot of physical affection. As a toddler, he would come downstairs in the morning, and make a beeline for our laps.

When he's sitting in church next to his dad, he'll lean in so his head rests on his dad's shoulder. In the house, when I'm cranky, and one of the two children is driving me crazy, he'll come up behind me and stroke my back.

I know that lots of boys his age are playing war games on the computer, while he plays chess and Toontown. Some are out killing animals with guns their dads (or moms) taught them to use. Some are closing their doors and posting "keep out" signs.

And yet, almost every night that he sleeps in our house here in the country, he says "Hug me." Stay with me. The night is dark, even when it glitters with stars and the moon leans in as though it would enter the windows as we sleep. The fears are more realistic, but they are still there. Magic stalks the small hours.

Hug me, Mom. Someday soon I'll know that's not what other boys do when they are trying to get some distance from their first love -- and I'll tell you.

But not now.

Not yet.

Hug me, he asks.

And I do.