Give Me a Hand. They're Like Magic.

When my best friend had children while I was desperately hoping for my own, I was taken by the innocence with which her children grabbed her shirt, her face.  The surity with which they touched her skin anywhere, without inhibitions.  I would lie in bed and feel jealousy over those hands, the special relationship they had with the mother. 

Baby hands. The chubby, grimy, inifinitely sweet hands of my sweet children stop me in my tracks. I think all moms have a body part. The part that they swoon for, the part that melts their hearts.  The hands get me.  Special K grabbing the neck of my shirt while he nurses, Ell asking to hold my hand, certain it will be waiting for him, Brooklyn rubbing my chest as she quiets for sleep.  Nothing  else makes me feel more a mom. 

Now that I think of it, nothing made me feel closer to my own mom.  Her hands were always cool, soft and comforting.  That touch could wipe away pain. My sister's hands are petite, slim, graceful.  My Nanny's hands were wrinkled, gentle, powdery soft.  So maybe I just like hands.  The power of touch.  I think we don't touch enough, there is much comfort to be found, but so much exposure, too.  Maybe that's the magic of a child's touch, the certainty of comfort found in simply reaching out to someone they trust.  AND. . . like most other things, the lessons we need to learn often come from the smallest among us. 

 

Special K's hands in action.  He puts them together now and it calms him and I love it.

 

Holding tightly to the edge of his swaddle.  That grasp.