Magnetism

"I'm your little magnet," my son said as he stuck himself to my body like static cling. He'd been following me at a distance of about eight inches as I walked to and fro across the kitchen and dining room, tidying up and collecting what I needed for us to pile into the car. We have a relatively narrow kitchen, with a choke point created by the peninsula of a quartz countertop, so when I'm busy in there, the last thing I want is a small person shadowing me. I pivot a lot and move fast, and could easily whirl around to accidentally knock that little person into the countertop's edge.

"I don't need a magnet on me," I replied. "Most people don't like to have other people that close to them."

My son let out an exaggerated wail with an undertone of sarcasm, like an adult saying "waaah" to imitate a baby. He's been doing that a lot lately to express displeasure, and while it's annoying, it's better than the whining he was formerly prone to. Something about it feels slightly off about it, though. The sarcastic note signals to me that he's trying to pass off his pain as no big deal, when it might be bigger than we think. Maybe he does, in fact, feel deeply rejected when I ask him to give me personal space.

Dad and I are his favorite people from morning to night. He hardly likes to be in a different room from us, and often protests when one of us leaves the house. When we try to extricate ourselves a bit, he turns on the puppy-dog eyes and says, "But you're the best person in the world!" Believe me, I treasure this sentiment—he won't be seven and sincere forever. I also don't have real cause for concern about his social development, because he enjoys school and has friends there.

On the other hand, he rarely asks for playdates with his peers, and for the past two birthdays he hasn't wanted to invite any of them to a party. His parents are truly his BFFs, which might be normal for this age, but I thought (perhaps ignorantly) that we'd be seeing more individuation by now. I wonder how much longer this strong attachment will, or should, last and what it means for his development.

Attachment theory seems to have a mixed level of support among psychologists, at least when it comes to framing its impact in absolute terms. The levels of happiness and confidence with which a child grows up depend on more than just the situational responses of their caregivers, which can vary from hour to hour based on what's happening in the household and the rest of life. But to my non-expert self, of course a secure attachment (using the phrase colloquially), is necessary to raise a happy child. We don't need psychologists to tell us that a child should feel safe with their parents—giving equal weight to physical safety and emotional safety. And while I publicly gripe a lot about my kid's neediness, the truth is he gets plenty of love and interaction at home.

The griping is more about trying to find that balance between too much and too little attention. It also comes from worrying that my introverted, self-protective nature is causing him to have some variety of insecure attachment: one that is influenced by fear. Is my child simply extra affectionate and sociable by nature, or is he lacking an element of psychological safety that neither he nor I can articulate? Insecure people tend to be overly clingy on their way to seek external reassurance. It's possible that my own boundaries with him have been so changeable that he feels like I'm not reliable. I love him and enjoy his antics so much that I don't always realize when I'm getting touched out until it's too late—then it must feel, to him, like I'm giving the cold shoulder.

On days when I feel in control of my emotions, and have the energy to match my son's wavelength, I do a decent job of giving him a balanced level of engagement. I'll start my own version of "the circle" by devoting a chunk of time to whatever he wants to do with me, whether it's drawing Pokemon figures or running around the house trying to stab each other as Among Us characters. Then I'll give him a five- or ten-minute warning, e.g. "I've gotta go do something else pretty soon." When time is up, I'll let him get in any maneuvers that are still pending from the playbook inside his head, then I will excuse myself.

I think this is my way of modeling a pattern that I hope he takes to more and more as gets older: needing me and Dad sometimes, and wanting to be alone at other times. Success is mixed right now. He doesn't get upset at separating from me when the circle is complete, but he shows little interest in taking the opportunity to be alone. Usually he either runs straight to Dad for alternative attention, or immediately asks to play Xbox, which (to me) doesn't count as down time.

And, of course, I don't always have the presence of mind to handle his attention-seeking in a thoughtful way. Sometimes I just sit down and let him run the show, even when I'm ostensibly reading or watch TV. He enjoys imaginative solo play as long as it's in my eyeline and he can get me to occasionally help with the dialogue. One side of me figures, How bad could this be? He's getting validation from a parent, which I know is necessary, and offloading some energy at the same time. The other side of me thinks I'm allowing him to maintain too short a leash, taking too much control over my space and time.

At the end of the day, he's sweet and respectful to his dad and me, and in turn we love him dearly. I probably should leave it at that.