Hands that will write your sweet little name on the top right corner of a piece of paper. Hands that will wrap around us in tight hugs. Hands that will sometimes hit and push and refuse to share. Hands that will play in the dirt and pull long, juicy earthworms from the ground. Hands that will make colorful art, covered in paint. RELATED: “Your Son Growing Up Will Feel Like the Slowest Breakup You’ve Ever Known” Aches in Every Mother’s HeartĪs we rock together and your eyes become heavy, I think about the future of those hands. You light up as you learn to wave, to sign, to communicate with those hands. They’re a fast-paced succession of exploration, constantly reaching and grasping. Each day you amaze me, along with those hands. Now you’re seven months old, and I wish we could slow down, baby boy. so primitive and yet so engaged were those hands. ![]() Slowly, they learned how to explore your face and my hair and the dog. I’d watch as his eyes lit up and his heart swelled to twice its size each time you grabbed with those little hands. Newborn you would squeeze your daddy’s finger with those hands. They sometimes made me nervous, those hands. I’d carefully watch those hands tighten and relax and felt reassured we’d be OK. Struggling with feedings and trying to get to know one another, your hands acted as my indicator of when you were full. Those hands that were clenched fists during the first weeks. RELATED: Don’t Let Me Forget Their Littleness How long your fingernails were on those wrinkly hands! Already I miss those hands. finally, they brought you to me on the operating table. Those hands that searched and reached for my face when finally. I’ll never forget, against all the drugs working through my veins for the surgery, the clarity in which I saw those hands. Those hands that splayed your fingers wide and long as the doctor pulled you from my body. They’re the simplest marker of time, your hands. Breaking free from the blanket in a gentle act of rebellion, your hands reach for me. It’s in this chair that time seems to freeze and fly in varying waves of realization. My sweet baby boy, how you’ve already changed so much in these few short months. We’re swaying to the steady rhythm of the rocking chair, a nestled buoy bobbing with the current.
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