Gluttons of Sunday

Our downstairs currently registers a balmy 57 degrees Fahrenheit (relief and repair hopefully come tomorrow). We clad ourselves in scarves, fleece and many layers to no warm avail. To rescue our cold noses and toeses, hubby suggested warm refuge in Mommy & Daddy's bed. So we retreated upstairs to flannel-ville. Hubby read the paper. Abby and I watched whatever TBS threw our way (Cheaper by the Dozen entertained us while I salivated over the stay-at-home mom becoming a national bestselling author). Henry's imagination entertained him--my red flannel duvet became a boat, a ship and a helicopter carrying him to distant lands at the southern border of the bed.

Simplicity, warmth and laziness reigned. What started as a necessity for bodily warmth became a salve for our frenetic lives; our souls exhaled. We lay there, spent, the gluttons of Sunday.

Lungs

Tonight, I lie in bed with sweet Henry (and thankfully not his sinister alter-ego who still likes to visit). After we read a pre-negotiated three books, we snuggle down under the fresh sheets. His lashes grace the roundness of his cheeks and his forehead spoons with mine. I am there to put him to sleep but it is he who hypnotizes me. I still grasp to comprehend the miracle of his presence and my role in bringing him here. I remember his not-so-elegant but noble first breaths. And now I am here, absorbing him, his essence and his breath. In and out. Out and in. I time my inhalations with his exhalations so I can breathe him in -- forever folding him and this moment into my lungs.

I Believe

This might be the last Christmas that Abby believes in Santa. This saddens me because I vividly remember my own heart break when this cold realization fogged my brain. In a valiant effort to prolong the magical wonder for my daughter, I've employed the efforts of Santa's elves. I, too, have been Santa's helper. Surprise candy canes adorned the trees and whimsical elves mysteriously moved 'round the house, playfully relocating from room to room. After we got a beautiful nine inches of snow, Santa himself delivered an early Christmas present of sleds. Abby explained that Santa must've used the Christmas winds to send the sleds down to us. I breathed a sigh of blissful relief.

In December of 1979, I deduced that my parents had been parading as Santa. (That same Christmas Eve, I spent several hours in the ER getting stitches in my chin. I secretly wished they could sew my faith and belief in the magic of Christmas back in at the same time.) When I rebounded, I started to craft the same veil of wonder and joy for my much younger brother.

I now get to do the same with Abby and Henry. I've got time with Henry. But Abby's current inquisitive line of questioning indicates that her logic is getting ready to trump her beliefs. She might be ready for this but, alas, I am not. I hope that if her tangible belief in Santa begins to fade, she will fuel the magic and spirit of Christmas for herself and others. I still get goosebumps when Christmas magic occurs. When the kids are hypnotized by twinkly lights, when they act selflessly, when strangers think of others before themselves...all these form a Christmas knot in my throat. Tears filled my eyes when Santa wished me a Merry Christmas this year. I was transported to 1978, once again a little girl, filling my heart and mind with the wonderment of the season. I hope Abby keeps that center of her heart open so she continues to give and receive the gifts of the season. So she will always say, with conviction, I Believe.

As A Mother

I am my children's compass. My thoughts, actions, talents, responses, quirks, beliefs and flaws all act as a compass guiding Abby and Henry. I provide nudges this way and that. I teach through the filter of my personal beliefs. I accept the truth of this foundation but must admit that it terrifies me. I want Abby and Henry to derive their beliefs from their own personal truths--not mine. I strive for them to fold my tutelage into their own personal mix of them and us, and encourage them to always edit for their authenticity.

As a child, I initially lit my light by the thoughts and energy of my parents. Later I fueled my fire with ideas from others, including both the bad ("you're awkward and ugly") and the good ("you're a breath of fresh air"). I've realized that I still tightly grasped some of the mistruths others crafted for me along my path--and found it much easier to glom onto the negatives than the positives. Fortunately, I now fully embrace my fabulousness. It took me 37 years and counting to learn this--how do I instill my children with the self-confidence to do the same? Right now?

How do young children, so pure and absorbent, mitigate the intricacies of not only their parents' lives but also their own? Take, for instance, the recent media coverage of the tragic bullying cases--the insidiousness of other's cruelties shake me to my core. How do I teach my children to not just persevere but flourish?

In what ways do I misguide my children? (Although I don't yet know exactly how I've fumbled as a parent, I know that when Henry and Abby are in their 20's and 30's, they'll fill me in.) I hope that through the truthful sharing and celebration of my life, I will ground them. Ground them with the understanding that mistakes and missteps are all part of emerging into a strong, competent, positive young adult. They must be dutiful editors, only embracing their personal truth. Yes, they can spark their light by my belief in them but I'm just the fire starter. They must develop their own light and pilot their path with their own, truthful, wobbly compasses.

In a Small Hand

The last few days, Abby has been a bit, shall we say, sassy. She's sassafrassed her way through her time with hubby, Henry and me. Scratch that. She's admirably attempted to be the reigning queen of sass but we've thwarted her efforts.

Last night after hubby bathed both children (love you, hubby), Abby ran down the hall squealing with glee. After I finished putting Henry to bed, I joined Abby in her room.

(After four days of her sass, and five days of solo-parenting while hubby traveled on business, I was a bit, shall we say, done. But I took my deep breath and decided to attempt to enjoy our last minutes together.)

I bent down to help her with her footie jammies and Sassy Sue (a.k.a Abby) said,

"Why (sigh) didn't you turn the lights on (quivering lip) in my room?" (a nice, full-bodied whine accompanied this question.)

I replied, "Please tell me you are not getting sassy and upset about a simple light. You got to your room first--you should've turned on the light." (Pride trumped my frustration because I didn't once utter the four-letter words that begged to be released from my lips.)

"But moooooommmmmmmm, I didn't KNOW the lights were out in my room. It was daaaaaark." She expertly employed the furrowed-brow-big-bottom-lip-and-foot-stomp trio.

Huh.

"Abby, the darkness in your room should've given you a clue that it was indeed dark in your room. Now knock it off and go brush your teeth." (Calm? What calm. Frustration now reigned.)

Abby stomped off to the bathroom and slammed things** and thumped stuff. Henry slept on the other side of the bathroom.

"STOP IT.", I venomously spat.

She responded by bawling.

I left, gained composure and waited for her in her bed to read books. I didn't say another word. I (tried) to emulate peace and love. We read. We hugged. As I left her bed, Abby said,

"Mommy, I want to touch you one more time." I took her hand. Then I heard Abby quietly say, through the night-light lit darkness,

"I'm sorry Mommy. I'm sorry I was so sassy about just a light."

In her hand and from the depths of her sass-rejecting soul, Abby found the right way. Tears welled. Pride returned and our evening ended with the two of us, hand in hand.

**Gene pool alert: In Abby's defense, she comes from a long line of slammers. Her great grandmother slammed, her grandmother slams, her mother slams. So slam she will.

November's Eve

The darkened branches starkly etch the crisp November sky--they seem to reach for the possibility of snow, heralding its pending arrival. All the leaves have since swirled, cavorted and lay spent on the soon-to-freeze ground.

The warmth of home beckons us in--steam rising from hearty soups, candle's flames dancing on darkened edges. Pink noses and cherry cheeks thaw in the hearth's flickering fire. Bodies cuddle, feet are warmed. Fuzzy, footed pajamas cocoon the children for a warm slumber. Flannel and fleece keep us toasty through the long, black nights. We sleep. Warm and assured by the comfort of each other, four protective walls, down comforters and the promise of the pending winter. Dreams lingering from past nights reemerge in our sleepy minds, giving way to winter reverie.

Solo

Yesterday morning, Henry and I agreed to walk Abby into school, per her request. We'd made it from the minivan to the sidewalk when we stopped briefly to appreciate Henry's 217th fabulous piece of firewood. When I looked up to talk to Abby, she was gone. She'd walked herself into school. I found her in her hallway.

"Abby!", I called.
"What?", she replied.

("Heeeeellllllllllllllllllloooooooooooooooo?!?!?!?!?!?!?", I thought, "Why are we walking you into school, and why did I drag your brother out of his car seat, when you're walking yourself into school?")

But instead I said, "You asked us to walk you into school. Would you please walk with us?" She agreed. As we neared her classroom, with Henry and I trailing, I saw a group of her male classmates sitting in the hall awaiting entry to their room.

"Hey Abby!", one of them yelled.
"Watch this Abby, it's so silly!", another smiled.

Abby beamed and sat down to join the early morning festivities. "Goodbye, Abby..." I said. I got a distracted, "Bye Mom." and I started to depart.

Henry and I walked through the hallway to the exit. I was so glad she was happy and enjoying her friends. I was surprised, however, by the realization that hit next:

Abby is her own person.

An obvious epiphany but a poignant one. She forges her own way, all day, through learnings both educational and transformative. What to say, what to wear, how to interact, how to translate the intricacies of elementary school life. Her acquisitions occur publicly but are private to her. I do not partake. We talk after school--I ask questions, she shares, we recap. But I am not physically present.

I watched the hoards of young kids filing through that school. My naive realization resonated within--young children, on their paths, defining their futures with each step. Each choice. Independent and autonomous. With no parents in sight.

Abby is her own person.

Abby inherently understands this. Why don't I? Where have I been? Was a memo issued? "Abby does stuff by herself all the time now! She goes to school and makes decisions on her own!" My daughter is no longer merely an extension of me, of Hubby or our family. She, like all the other students I saw, is an individual, forging her own way each day.

I am simultaneously proud, dumbfounded and humbled.

Sharing a Few of My Favorite Things

A random list of little things that make me happy.

1. Tervis Tumblers. I use the 24 oz BigT in the car instead of water bottles. They keep your drink cold and they don't sweat AND they have a lifetime guarantee.
2. Max Factor 2000 Calorie mascara. I love this stuff. But come 2010, they won't sell it in the US anymore. So I'll be desperately searching for an equally cheap and fabulous replacement.
3. Origins Underwear for lashes. I'm totally addicted. You put this white stuff on like mascara before you apply mascara. Makes lashes long, thick and fabulous.
4. McDonald's Diet Coke. And a side of fries.
5. Neutrogena MoistureShine Lip Gloss in Dreamy. Smooth, not sticky. Looks great over all my lipsticks or solo.
6. Aunt Sadie's Tree in a Can candle. Capri Blue's Number 9 Volcano candle. Tyler Candle Company's Limelight candle. They all make my house smell warm and cozy and gooooood.
8. Medicated ChapStick. I've tried so many chapsticks from the cheapest to the priciest and this is my favorite.
7. Salt and Vinegar potato chips. The more sour the better.
8. Ben Heggy's (Canton, OH) buttercreams in dark chocolate. Like a spoonful of cookie dough.

(File the following under the "Irish-girl-with-pasty-skin-needs-help-not-blending-into-the-walls" category)
9. Jemma Kidd Mannequinn Skin Complexion Enhancer. I feel like I look dewy and well-rested when I use this stuff. Light must reflect off this magic stuff and makes me feel pretty.
10. Trish McEvoy Face Shine Malibu. It's a creamy bronzer you apply with your fingers...but yikes! I can't find it anymore...help!
11. Jane Blushtix in Shimmering Brown. Same idea as above. I look healthy and not peaked with this stuff.

Now come on and tell me yours...

Onnlaye Six

Sometimes, the biggest wallops of love come from the smallest moments. Today I was working and I asked the kids to draw some pictures to keep them entertained. (Amazingly, this worked and I worked quietly while they drew quietly!) When I was mid-thought, I peripherally saw Abby approach with a smile and a piece of paper.

She quietly handed it to me. Thankfully, I stopped writing and accepted her gift.

My six-year-old love wants to marry me. (I'm the one in blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms and green t-shirt; Abby is in the pink one-piece body suit.)

Time stopped. All noise subsided. The poignancy of her message grew lumps in my throat and formed tears in my eyes. Abby stood patiently while I read and reread her note, languishing in her and the depths of her love. I looked up at her, smiled and swallowed her in a hug.

Henry

Ah, the life of a mother of a three-year-old. 'Tis bittersweet. My days and emotions are intrinsically linked with his. Lucky me. He swings from docile and kind to violent and screaming on a proverbial dime.

I am frustrated, exhausted and without answers. I am trying to find the lesson in this madness. I realize that as much as I consider myself a patient person, I am currently without. I feel as if I have no control, no recourse. Henry's first episode of each day leaves me feeling flat and hopeless. Today I let him watch two hours of Mickey Mouse Club House to stave off some certain lowering of some looming boom. I let him eat as many Goldfish as desired, just to keep the peace.

This afternoon, after a delightful romp outside, I delivered the unfortunate news that it was time to go inside. The devil himself embodied Henry. He shrieked, thrashed, spit fire. He threw his shoes, his helmet and kicked his scooter. After I closed the garage door, he defiantly ran back out, under the door. The fear of him being smooshed by the door threw me into a tither. I was simultanteously grateful he was ok and ready to pummel him. My lungs hurt I was so angry. I truly don't recognize him at these times. How can this be my sweet-cheeked boy who tells me he "wuvs me"?

So I sit, spent. I must reach down into the depths of my waning patience and sit with the fact that I do not currently have the answers, and rest my tired laurels on the hope that some day soon, they will come.

Permanent Marker

Lately I've found myself trying to remember. I intently try to memorize certain aspects of my children's personalities, actions and words. As Abby and Henry are doing/saying/growing/learning, I pause and watch. Hoping, if I sit long enough and concentrate hard enough, that I will etch, with permanent force, the essence of that moment.

How can I capture Abby's budding sense of humor? Can I pull out my Sharpie and indelibly commit to memory the round chub of Henry's cheek which gives way to the innocent curve of his pink lips? How will I conjure the sunlight illuminating the white-blond hair that frames Abby's face and gives way to her cascading golden curls? The belly laughs? The bone-crushing, soul-lifting bear hugs that fill my heart with warmth and light?

I have already experienced, in six short years, memory loss. I cannot elicit certain funny phrases or the sweet smell of my baby's breath which is one of my all-time favorite scents. (I recall burying my nose into their mouths, inhaling the tender scent of their breath, promising myself I would be able to somehow recreate that smell in my mind. I also remember Hubby walking into the room whilst my nose was jammed into either Abby or Henry's mouth--Hubby thought I'd lost my marbles.)

I can't remember how it feels to rub the silky arms that yielded to chunky wrists. I can no longer summon the sound of coos and gurgles.

The passing of these perishable moments breaks my heart; I continue, nonetheless, to cherish them all. And even though I cannot remember each in all of its light and dimension, I remain hopeful. Still pausing, still waiting, still manically memorizing--with Sharpie in hand. Sketching the moments so I can pull them out, however faded, and use them like a salve for my yesterday-missing soul. I strive to simultaneously revel in the past, live in the now and prepare for the yet-unknown, Sharpie-worthy moments of the future.

SNL, Meet Henry

Henry loves caulk. If it's caulk-related, it's cool with Henry. He loves hubby's work shirt with caulk smudges all over it. He thinks a fun afternoon includes carrying around a tube of caulk. He adores the painters who prepared our house for painting because they got to apply lots of ... caulk.

He enjoys it when hubby gets all caulky (couldn't resist) when doing house repairs.

The caulk conversations and random caulk thoughts Henry shares range from humorous to slap-your-thigh-with-tears-running-down-your-face hysterical. Following are some of my favorites. If they aren't that funny when you read them, try saying them out loud. I dare you not to laugh.

1. "Daddy has a caulk on his head." (Hubby worked all day in the basement and had a little pile of dirt and caulk sitting on the top of his hair.)

2. Henry grabbed hubby's face just after waking up one morning. "Daddy? Do you like to eat caulk?" Somehow, hubby was able to answer this repeated question with a straight face.

3. Henry and I shopped at the grocery store. When I turned my head to concentrate on the bread ingredient lists, I peripherally heard Henry announce, "Yeah, we've got some sweaty caulks in here. Yup, some sweaty caulks."

??!?!?!!

The shock and crazy laughter I experienced doubled me over. I grabbed my phone to text hubby and friends. I could hardly see the letters on my phone through the tears. It was as if he was channeling two different Saturday Night Live skits--Alec Baldwin's "Schweaty Balls" and the more recent "DIY Caulk" skit with Jason Lee. (I love and highly recommend both; however, if you don't enjoy word puns about the male anatomy, I'd skip them.)

4. I took Henry upstairs for bedtime. He had been dutifully carrying his caulk tube around. When he realized he'd forgotten it downstairs he yelled, "Momma! I want to sleep with my caulk!"

I sarcastically thought, "No problem." I did retrieve his caulk for him while laughing myself silly. Freud would have a ball with this. Maybe two.

Conversations with a Three-Year-Old (Alternate Title: Momma Needs to Be Quicker on her Feet)

Conversation One:
Henry and I lie in his bed, enjoying one last hug before he slept.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Henry."

"Do you have a baby in your tummy?" (This is Henry's question du jour these days. I'm hoping it's because we've recently spent time with two very pregnant women and not because I eat fast food and doughnuts everyday.)

"No, baby, I don't." I really hope the conversation ends here. It doesn't.

"Why not?", he queries.

My brilliant answer: "I just don't. Goodnight."


Conversation Two:
Henry sat in my lap, facing me. He stared at my chest.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"How do you play with boobies?" (Yup--boobies. Ta Tas. Breasts. Melons.)

My words were gone. I offered no response to his query. So I just stared at him like he stared at my chest.

(When I relayed the conversation to Hubby, he did a mental high five with his boy. I just know he did.)

Conversation with a Six-Year-Old

Tonight, I put Abby to bed. We enjoyed our typical nice long snuggle in the dark room with a cozy bed. I hugged her goodbye and started to pad out of the sleepy room. As I neared the end of her bed, I heard, "Mama, how old do I have to be to have a boyfriend?"

I stopped in my padded tracks.

"Well," I said, "probably 16 or so. Why?"

"I just want one. I want to be married."

Again, I asked, "Why? Why do you want to be married? "

Abby answered, "I just do."

"Well (I said again), marriage is great. But you shouldn't rush to marry. Be young, get an education and travel to fabulous places first."

The conversation paused in the darkness. Then Abby asked, "How many hours a day will I be in first grade?"

"About eight", I told her.

"Mama?", she asked.

"Yes babe."

"Will it snow here in New Jersey at Christmas?"

"Yes, it sure could", I answered.

"YES!!", she shouted into the dark. I heard the air swoosh as she lifted her exubulant fist into the air. Then, "Goodnight, Mama."

"Goodnight."

Highway and New Way

We're on a massive road trip--the family and I have been traveling for a month. All our belongings are packed and we're moving to a new state, a new city, a new adventure. We left the home we know and are en route to one we don't yet know. We drive from spot to spot, reconnecting with dear friends and family as we carve our new way home.

As I watch the white dashed lines of the highway tick by, I realize the irony of simultaneously getting further from home while also getting closer. Then an obvious thought, but an epiphany just the same: home is us, right here, on four wheels. The white lines are merely markers, paving the path we've chosen to take.

Comfort, friends and the-way-life-used-to-be get smaller in the rear view mirror; question marks and uncertainty try to loom ahead, but excitement and a smiling fresh start prevail.

Lumpy Monday

Some days aren't nearly as good as others. Today, for instance, was kinda crappy. Lumpy. From the minute my feet hit the floor this morning, everyone seemed agitated. The agitation displayed itself in various forms of whining, crying and sassy tones. Defiance even entered the day's equation.

Abby, Henry and I have spent many days together and I think we all might be bugging the shit out of each other.

The day held blips of loveliness (listening, sunshine, manners, exploration and laughter) but many more lumps. That's just how some days roll. I guess it's how I know how to gauge a good day. When the sun set on this not-so-lovely day, I counted the fact that my children were slumbering among one of my blessings. But guess what. Henry wasn't really asleep. This is a kid that usually goes to sleep and doesn't wake up until the morn. But tonight's pinnacle boasted a ferocious tantrum that I'm quite sure all my mother's neighbors heard. Screaming, kicking and choking all because I left his room after he was asleep. Three times.

When I finally left Henry's room, a.k.a. Henry's House of Restlessness and Fatigue, he whispered to me, his scratchy voice still hoarse from screaming, "Momma, will you peease check on me?"

With one simple phrase, my son leveled the lumps of the day. Frustration washed away. Somehow, with one small question, Henry made my day.

I just finished checking on two beautiful, sleeping children. Long eyelashes resting on cheeks, bodies curled up and cozy under covers. Lumpy Monday is over. Much-Less-Crappy Tuesday is just around the corner.

Happy Birthday, America

Hubby, the kids and I are vacationing at my in-laws lake house. We're here with my mother- and father-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their three children. We're experiencing pure summer bliss. On the Fourth of July, we journeyed on the boat to the most spectacular fireworks display I've ever seen.

The kids climbed into still-wet life jackets and we all piled into Poppy's boat. The clouds and the rain, which had hovered for the last 48 hours, parted. A hot pink and royal blue sunset emerged. Captain Poppy allowed each of the grandkids a turn at the helm as we traveled through the night to the perfect firework watching perch.

We anchored the boat and the waves kindly lapped the sides. The fireworks began, exploding overhead in a spectacular national birthday celebration. A perfectly orchestrated show ensued, brilliant reds, vibrant blues and gorgeous golds. After Abby patriotically whooped it up with her cousins in the front of the boat, she came to sit with me. We had a primo spot on the boat where we practically reclined. She rested her freshly bathed head next to mine. Her body was still. At times we discussed our favorite fireworks but mostly we lay hypnotized by the fireworks and the rhythmic lull of the boat dancing on the lake. To date, it is one of my favorite moments with my daughter.

The show ended. Abby vacated my lap and reolocated to Hubby's lap, drifting to sleep with his strong arms wrapped around her. Henry took advantage of the vacancy at my lap and dove into my arms. He curled up and promptly went to sleep. As we navigated the nautical traffic back to the lake house, I was once again lulled by the scent of a sweet child's head and the heavy weight of a small, solid body. I whispered my love to Abby and Henry in their dreams. The lake whispered, too, and wished everyone a good night's slumber.

Good night, lake.

Good night, America.

Just Call Me Scarlett

I am odd. Either that, or eternally normal. But I've digressed already and I've just begun this post. I'll back up...

I've been out of town with Abby for a week. (A truly delightful trip but more on that another time.) When the sun sets this Thursday, the contents of my family's and my life will be packed into a moving van or our minivan. We will be without a homestead for one and a half months--we will vagabond across the country, heading to our new city. A fairly obvious statement follows:

I have a shit load to do.

And the three things that I've added to my to do list, the things that have to be done immediately?

1. Clip Henry's finger nails
2. Cut Abby's hair
3. Plan last minute birthday party for Abby

I'm simultaneously proud that I'm putting my children's needs on the top of my list and embarrassed that I'm so blinded and paralyzed by the looming, ugly moving agenda that I'm hiding behind these simple grooming (and celebratory) tasks. True, Henry can't claw his way cross-country, and Abby's slimy, green hair is taking on a life of its own, but maybe I should be orchestrating the intricate, pressing details of our next six weeks...

Gotta dash. Balloons, snaggly nails and scraggly hair have won. Fiddle-dee-dee.

Cool Pool

Today the kids and I went to the pool. The three of us love our days of swimming, splashing and sun. The pool provides refuge from the scorching, summer south, allowing us to actually leave our air conditioned caves.

After the fairly frustrating, daunting process of migrating from the car (with squealing kids, bulging pool bag), through the parking lot and into the pool, we apply sunscreen. No one likes this process. The kids seemed to meld into the ground as I try to preempt the sun’s time stamp on their perfect, plump skin. Once I declare them safe, they escape to the cool confines of the blue.

Time at the pool is somehow surreal to me—simultaneously quick and languid. It’s like something from a dream sequence, the bright light of the sun, the brilliant blue of the sky and the little children splashing in the water, their laughter bouncing back to the sunlit sky. Parents abound, some in the pool, some in their graduate status of lounge chair perch.

Bliss.

It’s of this life and of my past life, when my role was that of the girl with chlorinated hair and tanned, limber limbs. Now, in the sunhatted-SPFed-tankini mommy role, I watch Abby full-heartedly take over my long discarded role, perfecting her dive, freestyle, hand-stands and underwater flips. As I play with Henry, I’m again taken back to my childhood pool days, now in the shallow end, playing with my baby brother. I was 10, he was two. I’d put him underwater and quickly pull him up and he’d gleefully squeal. His hair would always end up in wet, drippy point on his forehead (a la Squiggy of Laverne and Shirley fame). His round cheeks looked as if they might burst from the force of his smile. And we’d repeat and repeat and repeat. I now repeatedly replicate this ritual with Henry. Thanks to a curiously strong gene pool, his hair and cheeks look exactly the same as his Uncle’s.

When the kids and I head home, our energy is zapped, our bodies are chlorinated and our hearts buoyant. Here’s to pool days, past and present, heralding us back for more.

Hands

Tonight, Abby’s strong, slighter but still slightly pudgy hand grasped my own, age-spotty, bony one, which boldly shows my 37 years of living. As she traced the blue veined topography of my hand, I was transported back to admiring my own mother’s veined timepiece, feeling her knuckles (and even the spot where there isn’t a knuckle because of long-ago dog bite). When I was young, I coveted her hands and wished that my own, flawless yet immature hands could look like hers. “Be careful what you wish for…”, my mom said. I did not heed her advice and now I have the same, time-tested hands. As I remembered these long-ago moments with my mom, I felt my past intertwine with Abby’s; I felt as if Abby was me and I was my mom, 30 years ago. We were suspended somewhere between past and present. I bounced back to the now, with my fingers intertwined with my daughter’s, when she announced that she wants her hands to look like mine.

Henry’s dimpled, pudgy hands still hold the silky texture of fresh, new skin. I adore holding his hand, rubbing its silkiness like a talisman. Tonight, I lay on his bed as we whispered goodnight sweet nothings. His hypnotic hands rhythmically stroked my hair and almost put me to sleep. Later, I went to check on him. And I stared as his hands, calmly resting, regaining energy for tomorrow’s expidentures. The dim, soft nightlight cast shadows in his dimples. I felt still and the moment paused to imprint itself to my memory.

I see my children’s hands, any hand, and see life illustrated. Hands can bring past moments alive by seemingly suspending time. I hope I can oblige in years and moments to come, by recanting hundreds of snippets and synapsed recollections of our lives. Soft hands, dirty hands, hands with finger-nails needing trims, sticky hands, angry hands, forgiveness-seeking hands, feverish hands, holding hands, story-telling hands, independent hands, loving hands. Promise-filled hands, hopefully still periodically reaching for, and holding onto mine.