While many of my peers were being raised by what George Carlin dubbed "The Human Potential Movement," an approach employed by many late Baby Boomer parents, I was being raised by someone born before the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor; himself raised by Depression Era parents. There was no focus on potential with his approach. There was only work to be done, because that's what Teddy Roosevelt would do.
Our friends and social development were not priorities. Neither was our emotional well being. Boys, in particular, needed to be "toughened up," especially if they were "soft." Macho ruggedness was valued over all else, whatever the cost — even if the price of admission was your mental well-being.
Don't get me wrong. I'm hardly advocating for the other approach. George Carlin was calling out "The Human Potential Movement" for a reason. The result of this approach is a person who is selfish, apathetic, and completely incapable of seeing the world from anyone's point of view but their own. I should know, because they're my peers: parents of children who attend school with my children ... and they're raising another generation peppered with people incapable of empathy. The future looks bright.
Comparing the two approaches wasn't hard for me as my lone friend during puberty was a product of said movement. He had a two-parent home, a swimming pool, nice clothes, and every toy or video game he wanted, and I was openly jealous — especially over him having a loving, caring mother. The irony is, much like me, he was really unhappy.
Despite having access to every material possession he ever wanted, he was always focused on what he didn't have, and having me as a friend would never be good enough because I wasn't cool enough. Having zero friends for multiple school years prior to befriending him, I valued his friendship and remained loyal to a fault for decades. In reality, he was my part-time friend, with a permanent foot out, ready to depart for greener pastures at the first opportunity.
It wasn't until after becoming a father that I realized the thing we had in common: abusive, emotionally unavailable fathers. His mother may have hugged him, but his father never did, and neither did mine. It turns out, that was a deep void that no amount of material possessions could ever adequately fill, and my once-good friend is living proof.
I may have never consciously sought to hug my children, but I certainly never pushed them away or made them feel wrong for seeking comfort in my arms. The part about fatherhood that was a conscious decision was to provide the emotional foundation I always wanted, but never received from my parents.
My wife and I hug our children when they wake up, and we hug them before bed. We hug them when they're scared, or hurt, or happy. We hug them when there's no reason to, other than we want to hug them, and they hug us back. Somewhere along the line, we started saying "big hug" when hugging them before bed, and though they never repeated the line, there was something extra in their little embrace.
One night, when my son was two, he was emotionally distraught. His speech was really limited, even for two, but he was beside himself with emotion. Tears were streaming down his pained expression, and then he exclaimed, "CAN I HAVE A BIG HUG!!"
He spread his arms wide and threw himself into my lap, seeking the comfort he needed. I held him close, allowing his sobs to subside. Yes, you may have a big hug, and you may have one whenever you need one. There is no limit. I am not embarrassed to hug my son, or let him cry on my shoulder, and I never will be.
