No hugs during a pandemic

Right in the middle of a food delivery to my grands at a park-and-ride along I-95, I found myself with an urgent craving. I really needed a hug.

Of course, I abstained. The grandkids didn’t even exit my daughter’s car. Instead, we all smiled and waved at each other while the drone of traffic surrounded us. The longing for human contact struck deep within me.

For our own health and safety, we must follow the guidelines designed to keep coronavirus at bay. We are maintaining the 6 feet of social distance, eschewing displays of affection, especially between grandparents and grandchildren, and postponing family gatherings.

I didn’t expect to miss a hug. I have never been a hugger. Emotionally, I am super sensitive, but physically, I am aloof. My sensitivity comes with spatial boundaries.

I tear up at the slightest hint of pathos from a soulful story, a stirring anthem or a charming image. Nostalgia in any form can open my floodgates. My tears flow at an oldie on the radio, an endearing movie, a friendly note, even a sleeping baby.

I am not a physically demonstrative person and I live among non-huggers. While family gatherings for many begin and end in hugs, ours have thrived on distancing. We are more likely to greet one another with “what’s for dinner” and “put the game on.” We may part with “see you soon” and a quick “thanks.”

I typically am unprepared for hugs, particularly those extended from outside my familiar circle. I react awkwardly. My arms seem unsure of where to go and my response typically lags a few crucial seconds behind the gesture of the hugger. There are exceptions, of course. I readily accept hugs from my husband, children and grands. Actually, an unsolicited hug from any child is most welcome, and hugging babies is nice as well.

Scientific research lends credence to the therapeutic value of a hug. A gentle hug can stimulate the release of oxytocin in the human body. Researchers have found that the chemical, often called the “cuddle hormone” or the “love hormone,” is associated with happiness and reduced stress.

This hug-longing for me may be related to age and heredity. As she approached her golden years, my own mother, also mostly non-demonstrative, reversed a lifelong habit and insisted on greetings and partings with firm hugs. My father never adopted that change, but he did start calling us honey or buddy, instead of by our names.

Sundays, when we typically host family dinners, have become the hardest days of quarantine. Our family is too big to meet the 10 or less rule, and our dining table, even with an extension, doesn’t accommodate the requisite 6 feet of safe distancing.

I have discovered just how far the food budget stretches when serving two, instead of a weekly hosting of a hungry hoard. But I would relinquish those savings in a heartbeat, If I could play hostess again.

I’m not talking about the Martha Stewart dining experience. I long ago gave up striving for the sublime with floral centerpieces, flickering candlelight and crystal wine goblets. Our dinners are more chaotic than elegant and I truly miss the cacophony that comes with a crowded table. I miss kids jockeying for table seats next to their favorite aunt or uncle, and granddogs settling around the high chair, always the best option for savory overflow.

We sat down to place settings with missing utensils and crumpled napkins. We settled the sparring for the prized Disney-character mugs, attended to multiple milky spills and calmed fussy toddlers. And, ultimately, my husband and I dealt with a cleanup that extended well beyond a “60 Minutes” airing.

How strange it was to watch Easter mass on television last month, to skip the traditional foods and cook for two, instead of as many as 22. How unsatisfying it was to dine quietly, absent the company of chatty children. We talked by FaceTime and Zoom, but something was missing.

Partings after our multigenerational family meals were more about sighs of relief than hearty hugs. But when those dinners return, I won’t hesitate. Hello and goodbye hugs will become part of the tradition.

For the duration of this quarantine, we are keeping the TV on at Sunday dinner, if only for background noise. What we truly are listening for remains distant for now but much anticipated in the near future.

Mary Gail Hare (marygailhare@gmail. com) is a retired journalist who still finds many writable moments in her daily life.