Their Hands

Little hands make me smile. My kids' hands. I love them. Love holding them, kissing them, squeezing them, looking at them.

I can close my eyes and think back to different times in their lives and see their hands clearly in my mind. Soft, tiny baby hands. Fat, sticky toddler hands. Markered, dirty preschool hands. I remember holding their hands for their first steps, them grasping tightly my hands when we crossed streets, baby hands all over my face, little fingers grabbing my nose and pulling my ears. I remember holding onto Ella's hands when she was in the hospital that summer and begging her to be okay. New hands full of new discoveries. Little hands that held on for dear life when they were learning how to swim. Hands that still reach up and seek out reassurance when they're trying new things. Those hands. They are so much. A physical connection between us, symbols of a lifetime of memories, possibilities for a lifetime.

I love my kids' hands. I can't wait to see the hands of this little love that is growing inside of me. Her hands, I feel every day...even as I write this, I feel her hands exploring her world in my body. And, with each passing day, the kids on the outside can better feel her making her own presence known, too. This is one of the best parts of being pregnant for me. Having Ella's or Summit's hands on my belly, waiting patiently for their new sister to kick against their hands...seeing the smiling, surprised expressions on their faces when she does...there is nothing in this world that could ever replace the love and happiness in those moments. Nothing.

So, it's no wonder that in this crazy, busy, wild time in our lives when the thought of life can be so overwhelming and challenging, it's my kids' hands that center me, ground me, and make me find my way back to appreciating the love in our world, which is the most important thing, after all.