Reasons for Hugs

So now I come to you with open arms,
Nothing to hide,
Believe what I say.
Here I am, with open arms,
Hoping you'll see what your love means to me,
Open arms.
   - Journey

Back in my 30's, I wrote a book of children's poems called Once Upon a Butterfly, and absolutely nothing ever came of it. I probably half-heartedly sent it to one or two publishers and sighed at the rejection notices before tucking the whole manuscript into the lower file cabinet in my office, a fate worse than death, taxes or the Island of Misfit Toys.

One of the poems, "Reasons for Hugs," has been flashing through my mind this month because of its opening line, "So, you won't let me hug you to make you feel better."

Hugs are a rare commodity here in our early life with Justuce and Justin, even when they need them, even when they're hurting. Adopted older kids don't arrive with love built in for their new caregivers, which is a perfectly normal but nonetheless painful reality for parents who adopt, because by the time children are placed in the home, the adoptive parents have already ridden a roller coaster of ups and downs, hopes and anxiety, wishes and fears, and complete, maddening unknowing that finally culminates with the beautiful words, "Yes, they're yours."

By the time the kids take the first step into the home, the parents have been ready to hug them for months. But in the true reality of four different souls, styles and personalities coming together in one home, as one family, for the very first time, hugs are few and far between.

For the first month, we didn't hug the children at all because they wouldn't let us. The books all recommended frequent, light physical contact at first, and even though our hearts wanted more, hugs overwhelmed them and any attempts were shunned. That utter refusal was right and natural and par for the course. Didn't make the rejection feel any better, but that's exactly what was supposed to be happening. Technically speaking, it wouldn't be unusual if that sort of rejection happens our whole first year, God help us.

In the second month, we saw some small steps forward. Justin would allow himself to be comforted, albeit rarely, if hurt or crying. Justuce started saying, "pick me up," which quickly became her code phrase for "hug me, hold me, but don't make me admit I want a hug." And I'm fine with that. "Hug me but pretend you're not hugging me" is way better than "get away from me and don't come near me at all." 

Both kids let me hold them more than they let Adam hold them. Affectionately, they favor me. Part of me wants to celebrate that. I'm connecting with them in visible ways and I'm overjoyed. But joy on one hand is devestation on the other. Seeing how much this early favoritism has led to tears and sadness and low self-esteem for Adam, it's hard to take any joy from their added affection. I don't know how to stop our children from turning our marriage into one winner and one loser. The discussions, the worry, the hurt feelings over this are already immense.

Adam loves them just as much, but doesn't quite have the instinct or persistence for "in your face" affection like I do. I'm ruthless and ridiculous. I will try and try and try again. I will pick them up and laugh and growl and tell them in a funny voice, "You're going to love me whether you like it or not," and then I steal a quick hug or a kiss on their disgusted, scrunched-up noses, and then I put them down. And when the rejection comes, like it always does, when the sneers come, when the scowls come, when the outright disgust comes, I just try harder the next time. I don't care what the textbooks say. They will not not love me. Even on nights like tonight when I stand in the shower and cry for ten minutes as the hot water washes away yet another one of my connective failures, I cry until the tears run out, then I just reboot my ridiculous hard drive of hope and I try it again.

"This is a nightmare," I said to Adam tonight. "A nightmare punctuated by hope."

And I'm not embarassed to admit that, because many days, it is.

Many days.

Adam and I are both stumbling blindly right now, waiting for a connection that doesn't always come. It's not that I'm any better or more clever at it than he is. I don't have any secret trick for drawing out their extra favor. They're no moths and I'm no flame. I just have the tenacity or stupidity to get punched in the heart ten times a day and keep coming back for more. I don't know how to admit defeat in the emotional arena, so there I am, always in the fray, usually getting the shit kicked out of me, but my persistence has earned me their comfort, if nothing else. They don't love me better, Adam. I'm just down on the floor more often and they're more used to seeing me down there. This is where our life is now. Down on the floor, on their terms. We have to spot the openings for love and ruthlessly worm our way in. Get down on the floor and be worms with us, Adam. I'll make you their favorite, too. I will teach them that. God as my witness, I promise I can do it, but you have to meet us down on the floor. Every day. Even when they kick you.

Both kids ask to be picked up and carried. This is partly age-regression, which is common in adopted older kids, and partly their safe way to express their craving for human contact. It really is amazing when you think about it. Even hurt kids who've had the world pulled out from under them still look for human contact and affection wherever they land, even if they're far, far from admitting they want or need it. It's built into everyone and it relieves me greatly to see it's still built into Justuce and Justin. They want to be carried. For moments, in flashes of need, they ask us to hold them. Bonded or not, attached or not, they're learning to make due with what they've been given. This is a start. This is a win.

Now well into our third month, Justuce lets me pick her up and hold her with little reservation. As long as I don't verbally use the word "hug," we're fine. I kissed her cheek today and she kissed mine back. That's a first. I could have fainted with joy.

Justin still runs hot and cold with hugability. If he falls down and hurts himself, which is often, he will sometimes let me pick him up and hold and comfort him when he cries. If he is tantruming, or angry, or ashamed of being disciplined, he will absolutely not let me hold him and try to settle him down. Shit out of luck, Dad. A fish on a hook is downright docile compared to J2 in a tantrum. His slippery fury is awesome to behold.

We had a twenty minute tantrum after dinner tonight. I was trying to make him look into my eyes while I talked to him. We still have a huge problem with Justin's eye contact, focus and attention to direction. His body, his face, his head, his hands...he's all over the place, all the time, and it's difficult to draw him into our voices, our authority, and our simple need to have him listen, process and respond. It sounds crazy, perhaps even cruel, but I'm starting to insist he practice looking in my eyes while I slowly count to thirty. He doesn't like it. It makes him cry. But he needs to learn to stop, slow down, focus and hear me. I'll have to practice this over and over and over with him before it's a skill he can manage. It's not in the textbooks, but I'm doing it anyway because it just feels right. It's a kick in the heart for both of us, but it's one he needs. And like it or not, it's one I'm going to do.

He just came up to me right now as I was typing this and began poking his fingers all over the keyboard, giggling, trying to interrupt me. I couldn't get him to stop. "Justin, look in my eyes. Look in my eyes. Look in my eyes." I said it ten times, slowly, evenly, and got no response. I said it with a raised voice, and still nothing. No response. Just more giggling. More poking at the keyboard. There are times when he is absolutely unreachable, and short of screaming, yelling, or turning the world into one massive time-out, there's nothing I can do. To paraphrase Lloyd Bridges in Airplane, I guess I picked the wrong parental lifetime to stop sniffing glue.

Justin's a tickle hugger. Just like Justuce sneaks her hugs in under the radar with her "safe" "pick me up," Justin will occasionally pounce on me or Adam or sometimes, delightfully, both of us for a hilarious round of giggly tickles. This is as close to a hug as it gets in Justin's world right now, which is incredibly sad for me because I grew up in a family of huggers. Our arms are outstretched before most folks get around to the handshakes. And if ever there was a little boy who needed hugs, it's Justin.

I guess that's why my old poem has been haunting me this month, written long before I ever dreamed I'd have a son and daughter of my own.

So you won't let me hug you to make you feel better?
You'll sit there and cry and your eyes will get redder.
Before that sad frown turns your face a deep blue,
Let me tell you of some of the things I could do.

I might pull and tug you from out of your chair
And explain to you that we were going somewhere,
But upon our return you'd be sad once again
And ignoring the wonderful places we'd been.

(A pull is a pull and a tug is a tug,
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug).

A jar and a jug could help store up your tears.
We could keep them all hidden for several years.
But chances are good that they'd start leaking out,
And I think that you know what I'm talking about.

(A jar is a jar and a jug is a jug,
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug).

A spider or bug might run over your hand,
And it might make you tickle, and that would be grand,
But when they go away you'd be back to square one
And you wouldn't be happy. That wouldn't be fun.

(A spider's a spider, a bug is a bug,
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug).

Now I know that you'd rather be happy than not,
And believe me, this answer's the best one I've got.
So, stretch out your arms and come here, you big lug,
'Cause a friend who needs love is the best kind to hug.

I used to dream such impossibly big dreams, always about me, always about my life, always about my own success. Now my fondest dream is the one where I say to Justin or Justuce, "Do you need a hug?" and in my mind's eye, in that impossible hard drive of hope, they nod their sad heads, wipe away tears, and step softly into my waiting, open arms.