The 3-Second Rule

I hug the children goodbye at the playground gates as the bell rings to signal the beginning of their school day. With Evie and Jake the embrace is somewhat perfunctory. Simultaneously they grab me, messily kiss my cheek and run off hand-in-hand, whispering together as usual. How different Ben’s farewell. At seven he is more than two years older than the twins but less confident, more sensitive, fragile almost. My heart contracts as he clings tightly to me, as he did yesterday and every weekday morning since term began.

Off you go then poppet,’ I say, attempting an upbeat tone. ‘It's painting today and you are so good at that.’

‘I'd rather spend the day with you mum.’

‘Just today and tomorrow and then it's the weekend. We'll do something special on Saturday, OK?'

In answer Ben nods but makes no move to end our embrace. I push him away gently and wave and smile encouragingly as he makes his way slowly, so, so reluctantly, towards the school doors.

Mark’s and my decision to have a second child to keep Ben, our already quiet, shy toddler, company had backfired when two strong heartbeats appeared on the radiographer’s screen rather than one. Wonderous of course, our ‘two-for-the-price-of-one pregnancy,’ as Mark had called it. But since the twins’ birth Ben always seems to be the odd one out somehow; Liz and Mark, Jake and Evie, Ben and . . . well just Ben. There is no obvious jealousy, no real bad behaviour beyond the usual little boy naughtiness; just a worrying tendency to solitude at home and a lack of close friendships outside of it. Things have got even worse in the last six months since Becky and John and their son Jason, the child Ben was happiest to spend time with, moved away. Since then Ben had become even more reserved at home and even more needy in public. He sticks close to me or his daddy not just at the school gates but whenever we are in company, which, if I'm honest, is a trait that I find particularly unattractive, especially in a boy.

As I drive away from the school I find myself thinking back to an article I read in the paper a few days ago. A normal hug, which we all need eight of each day the author insisted, lasts just about three seconds apparently. Any less and it’s not really a hug, doesn’t convey the right amount of affection or concern. Any longer and the recipient, if not the giver, of the hug begins to feel uncomfortable. I have always hated the word normal and make it a personal quest to challenge the norm whenever I can. Nothing momentous but having been encouraged by my own parents to work for what I want rather than what society expects of me I am happy to be somewhat unconventional, in my dress, in some of my political opinions and in my expectations of my own children. So I was unembarrassed when the twins wanted to swop clothes for a while and Jake went to the park in Evie’s pink shorts and tights and I indulge and encourage the sharing of toys amongst the children, which sometimes causes a little confusion when others come to play.

‘But that's a girl's toy,’ said one young visitor when Jake suggested they play with the colourful set of plastic pots and pans.

‘My mum says that there's no such thing as a genda spiffic plaything,’ replied Jake.

‘Huh, well anyway I'm not playing with a girl's toy,’ insisted the friend indignantly.

Mark and I talk to the children about any and all topics and we are an emotionally open and physically affectionate family. So why am I so disturbed by Ben’s behaviour and why can’t I embrace (I groan at the pun) the so-called abnormal in this instance. I am bothered by the fact that it bothers me. Am I really worried about Ben or about what others will think of me as a mother when he clings? This makes me think again about the three second hug rule. Surely such precise timings aren’t relevant to children. Or maybe hug etiquette is a bodily instinct that one is born with rather than acquires.

As I park the car I ponder on whether the lack of need that the twins seem to have for physical comfort from me, or indeed anyone else, accentuates Ben’s demands. Clearly not a problem I can solve immediately I sigh heavily and mentally prepare for the rest of the day.

First a coffee with Gill in town. An event bound to cheer me up. Sipping a skinny cappuccino at Belles whilst I wait, having arrived 15 minutes before I know my friend will, I find myself watching the other café dwellers. There are several rendezvous. A couple of men in suits shake hands, hitch up their trousers and huddle over espressos and a laptop. Two sets of thirty and forty-something women kiss, hug, for just less than three seconds by my estimation, and settle over their various milky coffees to chat. An older woman rises to greet a younger woman and an almost school age child. I find these intergenerational greetings the most interesting: a hug for the woman, ‘normal’ again (I imagine the single quotation marks) but a tight squeeze and a rain of kisses for the little girl which make her squeal with delight and say, 'more nanna, more.'

That challenges the inborn hug metre theory then, clearly no discomfort on either side there. Thinking this I am smiling to myself as Gill arrives. We engage in a ‘normal’ embrace, and I smile again. Then I forget my reflections for a while as we catch up on recent events in each of our lives and on a bit of gossip about the lives of others.

After coffee I'm off to the gym for my weekly Pilates class. Whilst there I continue my research, as I've started to view my hug observations. Not everybody embraces of course; there are nods of the head, some smiles and brief waves, a pat on the back or two and a few air kisses. Sometimes these signals and contacts are accompanied by words of greetings, sometimes not. But there are hugs too, mostly between women or women and men but I also observe a couple of manly clasps, which last, I think, just a fraction less than the women only or cross-sex ones. For me the gym is a place of activity – with swimming and weights part of my routine in addition to Pilates – rather than a social space and I realise that I'm not on hugging terms with anyone here. During my visit today I exchange smiles and a verbal acknowledgement or two but, as usual, I don't engage in any physical contact or linger to talk after class as some of the others do.

Walking back to the car-park I pass a high street greetings card shop and remember that we need a birthday card for Mark’s mother. Some of the more sentimental of the choices depict hugs and the cute rabbits and bears locked in a permanent clinch, although of course caricatures, demonstrate further the emotional value placed on this form of physical contact. But the cutesy hugs on the birthday cards are only a representation of friendship and love and might even be exchanged between people who rarely meet, let alone hug. Nonetheless charming for that, I think, as I remember how receiving such cards or gifts of virtual hugs from far away friends always warms my day. My choice for Anna, my mother-in-law, has flowers on it and I make a mental note of the need to order the real thing for arrival on the day along with the card.

Work next and I drive the short distance to the town library for my five hour shift. I love my job and always have, since joining the library straight from school 18 years ago. I am grateful to have always been able to combine working with motherhood. When the children were smaller I worked fewer hours but I'm back up to 30 hours a week now; spread across six days. I am particularly pleased with the way the library has changed over the years and proud of my own part in these improvements. It was my love of books that drew me to the position but the then dark uninviting décor, uncomfortable furniture and austere atmosphere meant that the library was less a community resource than it should have been. The old place is unrecognisable now. A new, progressive senior librarian, keen to make changes and to encourage creativity in her staff led to not only brighter walls and squashy sofas as well as tables and chairs but to a much brighter feel altogether. Book clubs, children’s reading sessions and exhibitions of local art work are now the order of the day and the computer section and coffee corner are nearly always full. One of my jobs today is to finalise the arrangements for the next ‘open mike’ creative writing evening; a newish development which has brought in a whole new set of library visitors.

I remove my coat and check my hair and face in the mirror in the staff room just as Paul the youngest member of the library team walks in with his lunchbox.

'Beautiful as ever,’ he says quickly moving aside as I attempt to affectionately slap his hand, demonstrating that hugging isn't the only physical greeting at our disposal.

After exchanging a bit more banter with Paul I make myself a cup of coffee and retire to the office to complete my tasks for the creative writing event. The shift passes quickly and as ever is full of variety. I do a stint on the desk, talk to several regulars, give recommendations to readers from a number of generations and spends some time cataloguing.

There is plenty of time for my hug research too and I am struck by just how common hugging is. As in the coffee shop and the gym I notice that women are more likely to be both the givers and recipients of hugs. I wonder when it became so commonplace, when close physical contact became popular in a country whose inhabitants have a reputation for being stiff and undemonstrative. Perhaps it's the result of North American influences and a shadowing of behaviours in movies and television programmes. Whatever, I like it, both as observer and receiver, as a form of greeting, of farewell or of anytime spontaneous affection.

I am the happy recipient of a few hugs myself during the afternoon. The first is from a 60 something woman, a new visitor to the library, who tried the three bookshops in town first. The talking book she wants is available for loan from the library and when I find it for her she smiles brightly, says 'thank you so much my dear,' and briefly clasps me to her chest. Following the 3pm story book session a couple of the pre-schoolers thank me with hugs as does one of their mothers who is an old school friend of mine.

In an unusual late afternoon lull I share a break with my friend and colleague Jayne whilst Paul holds the fort. Jayne and I haven’t seen each other for a while. She’s been away on leave and arrived back from a late lunch-break at the shops whilst I was busy helping the library’s afternoon users. We hug and then sit for a chat, drinking tea and eating a chocolate bar each. After we have caught up on general work and personal issues I tell Jayne about my study of hugs throughout the day which leads to an outpouring of my worries about Ben and his clinginess at the school gates. Jayne listens attentively and asks a few questions about Ben’s current performance in school and his extra-curricular interests and movements.

'Sounds like just a phase to me,' she concludes. 'I remember when my Harry was younger he went through a similar patch when a close school friend moved away, Ben will find another friend but needs some time to grieve the loss of Jason. And we can’t have it both ways you know Liz, on the one hand long for our men folk to be in touch with their 21^st century feelings but at the same time expect them to be super-macho all the time’.

She smiles as she says this and I recognise and acknowledge the gentle criticism. I who am so careful to encourage my daughter to attempt everything my sons do. I who insist that the boys and Mark do their equal share of so-called feminine chores have fallen short of my own gender-neutral parenting guidelines. Thinking back over the day I realise what a shame it is that older boys and men are less likely to experience the warmth and comfort of the brief affectionate physical connection that now seems second nature to most women and girls.

Driving home I pass the railway station and stopped in traffic I see an advert for various railcards all promising a percentage cost off hugs to the lucky owner. How strange that I should see this today of all days. Again, as on the birthday cards I saw earlier, there are figures frozen in a perpetual clasp. But this time it is people caught by the click of a camera rather than sweet and slightly sickly images drawn by Hallmark, and similar, employees. There are parents and their children, grandparents and grandchildren, friends, lovers. I know of course that these images are as staged as the ones on greetings cards and that the depicted adults and children are likely to be actors, paid for their time. But they all look so happy, delighted and, well, delightful. Suddenly I can’t wait to get home.

Letting myself into the house around half-past-six I hear the clatter of cutlery and the ends of a conversation about dinosaur eggs. Having picked the children up from school Mark has done the Thursday supermarket run and he is now taking pizza out of the oven whilst Ben carries a large bowl of salad to the table that the twins are setting. As one they turn and smile at me and I conclude that there is not too much wrong in my world. I've had a good day which has included fun time and happy work time. In addition I've managed my eight-a-day hug requirement and more. Ben pulls a chair out for me and leans in to me and I return his hug with pleasure. It lasts much longer that the regulation three seconds and it is Ben that pulls away first giving me a quizzical look. There follows a busy and productive two-and-a-half hours which includes more talk about prehistoric animals, the completion of three lots of homework, bath time, bedtime stories and lots of goodnight kissing.

‘Shall we have a glass of wine and watch TV for a bit?,’ I ask Mark as we descend the stairs together.

'Great idea,' he replies and goes to quickly tidy the sitting room whilst I go to the kitchen for some dry red and something to nibble on.

As I walk through the door Mark smiles, sinks down onto the sofa and opens his arms wide. I wonder if anyone has decided on the normal length for a cuddle. Chuckling softly I settle in for a long one.