There are so many kinds of hugs.
The polite, pat-on-the-back type that closer acquaintances on their way to becoming friends exchange.
The warm hug of a mother and daughter.
The protective hug of a father and daughter.
The strong I-love-you-so-much-but-I-can’t-put-it-into-words hug of a father and son.
The gentle hug of a mother and her newborn baby.
The wild, silly hug of siblings.
The tentative, shy hug of toddlers meeting each other for the first time.
The tight, never-let-you-go-again hug of long lost friends or out-of-town relatives.
And so many more.
The one I love the most…
My child’s hug.
I cannot catch him on camera as he comes down the stairs in the morning and pauses half-way down to peek over the banister. He is too quick.
But when his head ducks back down and the soft thud of his feet continue on the carpeted staircase, I know he’s coming with arms wide open.
When he reaches the bottom, he pauses ever so briefly then breaks into a run across the dining room/playroom and straight into my arms, wrapping himself like a twist tie around my neck and body with his strong little two-year-old arms and legs.
He rests his head in the crook of my neck and relaxes his body into the shape of me.
This is love. Excruciatingly beautiful, heart-beating-out-of-my-chest-LOVE.