Squishy
My toddler grabs my cheeks with his chubby hands and declares, "You are so squishy." He gives me a kiss and then a tight hug. He grabs my cheeks one more time and looks me in the eye. In a flash, he's off to play. He looks back over his shoulder and yells, "I love your squish." His grin is mischievous. I can't help up grin back.
***
I sit on the couch with my seven-year-old. It is our quiet time at the end of the day, only moments before bed time. She reads a chapter book as I read urban fantasy on my Kindle. She snuggles close, puts her head on my chest, and wraps her arms around my middle. "You're so squishy," she says with a laugh. She clings to me for several seconds longer. I want to hold her close for as long as I can . Maybe even forever. I give into that daydream for a few seconds, and then, I let go. "I love that you are so squishy," she notes. She picks her book back up, and so do I.
***
Calling me squishy has become a habit for my children. I'm not sure when or where they picked up the word "squishy." It is not a word I use much at all. And yet, this particular term has come to describe me. They both decided I'm squishy, so I must be. To be honest, squishy is likely better than other alternatives. When my daughter was six, she used to tell me how much she loved my "cozy fat." At least, I thought at the time, she thinks I'm cozy.
Squishy feels better to me somehow. It feels apt. It feels right. It feels...accurate. Because I am sort of squishy. I have chubby cheeks that, through out my life, people wanted to squeeze, pat, or pinch. I came to terms with my cheeks long ago. My stomach went soft (not that it was ever firm) after two pregnancies and two c-sections.
My middle is squishy, so am I.
***
Squishy is a word that sounds like what it means. Say it aloud and linger over the sound. Sqquiishhy.
According to Merriam-Webster, squishy means soft, not firm, not steady, imprecise, yielding, or even damp. ("My shoes are squishy from the rain." Or "Your logic seems squishy.") According to the Urban Dictionary, squishy means "someone of a huggable nature." I prefer this definition. I'm huggable. We are all of a huggable nature. We are all squishy. My children seem to intuit this way of understanding the word. To them, squishy is good. Squishy means hugs, cuddles, snuggles, and the softness of care. What better definition could you want than theirs?
Maybe squishy means cuddly to my children because they are used to my squish. Maybe squishy is all they've ever known. Maybe squishy is all they need to know right now. Maybe I refuse to be the one that teaches them to define the word differently. Maybe I want to be the one who comforts and cuddles them even if I'm relegated to squishy. Maybe I want to remain squishy to them for as long as possible, forever even.
***
I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about squishy. There's an ambivalence I feel about being squish. (Ambivalence is sort of what I do best.)
But, then, I read an Ask Polly column from April, in which the letter writer asks about how to find self-worth when they feel "so vague and squishy." Polly, the wonderful Heather Havrilesky, offers a rousing defense of squish. She admits that she still feels "vague and squishy" and that her sense of self-worth is fluid. She writes:
The faith and the magic that you're looking for come out of the squish. Magic doesn't exist separately from the squish. You don't push the squish out of the way to get to it. You live in the squish and you find your faith there.
We live in the squish. Squish is what makes up our lives. More than that, Polly points out that we are all just "complex microbiomes, teeming with life" and bacteria and microbes. We are us and other simultaneously. We are complex systems represented as singular selves. We are always already squish. We will continued to be squish whether we choose to recognize it or not.
Squishy is more than it first appears. Most things are.
Perhaps, we should all aim for squishy because that's most of what we are. But, Polly reminds us, "We are all made of magic" too.
Humans are squish and magic. Magic and squish. Squishy might be one of the highest compliments my children can bestow. It just took me a little time to realize it. Being squish has its benefits. Because I'm of a huggable nature, and you are too. Try not to forget that, okay?
What I've been reading:
Liana Silva wrote a letter about clutter. The essay is the perfect form for our time (HELL TO THE YES). What fat acceptance really means. A vision for black lives. The unbearable whiteness of the Yale English Major. 13 books to spark conversations about empathy with kids. Ask Polly handles being broke and hating your job. Being a woman in country music. And so much more that I forgot to bookmark (oh well).
What I've been writing:
Tim LaHaye died last week, so I say goodbye. Fashionable (religious) intolerance. A review of Heather Havrilesky's WONDERFUL How to Be a Person in the World. Codes of conduct at science conferences. Political unrest in Brazil (what?!).
Albums!
Track 8, The Past Was Close Behind, Joe Fruscione on Dylan and how to keep on keepin' on.
Track 9, Give Em Enough Rope, Robin James writes about running music and embodiment.
Track 10, Hip-hop Head, Tyrell Baker gives us a glimpses of his life as a hip-hop head.
Track 11, Someone To Sing You a Song, Jeremy Neely defends Dad Rock and Wilco.
Here's my (main) piles of research for essays I want/need to write. They are starting to get out of hand. As you can see, I still need printed pages for my writing process. Double-sided printing for the environment's sake.