“Have a great day,” I told my son. Then he walked away, headed straight for the front door and to be awesome at school.
“Woah,” I said. “Are you forgetting something?”
“What?” At twelve, most of his answers now are in the form of a question.
“Hugs, man. That’s how we start our day!”
He tilted his head back and sighed. Then he turned to make sure none of his friends were anywhere in our house. At this point, it’s pretty much a reflex action. You can’t give dad a hug when other’s are around. Eventually, he walked over, each step landing louder than the last. The hug he gave was unenthusiastic. It was one arm around my shoulders with a quickly added back-slap. It’s something you would give your teammate after they got a first down.
“Nah, you don’t bro-hug dad,” I said. “C’mon, we are not going to be those people.”
He knows what I’m talking about. It’s the fathers and sons that are afraid to show any affection for each other. Most of us grew up just like that because hugging dad was “weird” or “not manly.” It wasn’t tough. I’m not sure where this kind of thing started. I have thought that perhaps it is some sort of instinct, although for the life of me I cannot figure out what evolutionary benefit it has. Perhaps back in the days of caves and sloppy caveman surgery, a hug was to invite a sabertooth tiger to eat your leg. I don’t know, I’m spitballing here.
Most of us have grown up this way. Shows of affection between males is seen as not being tough, and many of us strive to be tough. We want that moniker, that moment that we can say look how tough I am, I don’t hug my dad. I went through it myself, and I know where this habit leads.
Hugs between my own father and I were always awkward. Toward the end of his life, I didn’t want that to be the case. By that time, I had sons of my own. I couldn’t live without that physical contact that a hug offers me between myself and my children. I don’t know how my dad did.
My father was a good dad, full of life and the most optimistic person I have ever known. But even between us, an optimistic father and an extroverted son, hugs were almost forced. They were never second nature and over way before they should have been. It’s one of those things we now explain as “well, it was a different time.” Writing this as a father myself, that’s stupid.
When I hugged my dad at the end, he was small and fragile. I was often afraid that I would break a bone. I didn’t take advantage of those hard hugs when I could and it’s something I will always regret.
My son turned from me having completely ignored my request for a bigger, harder hug. There is a fine line about teaching him body autonomy and embracing affection. It may not seem like much to him now, but I don’t want him having that same regret I have.
“Dude, c’mon. We can do better,” I said as I held out my arms. “No weak hug. No pat on the back, I’m not your friend. I’m your father.” It was a bit of a plea, and I get that he doesn’t understand why. He’s always had this affection. To him, this is a normal day with dad. But even normal days need more. Those are the days that you build those habits and teach those lessons.
He came in for another hug. Both arms wrapped around me and he squeezed as hard as he could.
“Better, but get in here. Give the hug like you mean it.”
His breath caught as he gathered all the strength that he could muster. There it was. That’s what life needs. A hug that stays with you after everyone that has left. One that you can still feel. The one I wished I had given my own father.
“Doesn’t this hurt?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. He bent his knees and really got into it. He was close to tackling me.
“What about now?” he asked.
“Not even close.”
“Why not?”
These are the lessons that we need to teach our sons. That showing affection for one another is what the strong do. It’s when we throw away those small embarrassments and live in the moment. When you give those hugs, you need to mean them. We have earned them. Why doesn’t the hug hurt?
Because dad is tough.
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