The one about a mother's hands

I have my mom’s hands.  They are identical to hers when she was around my age.  If I held them up to hers now, of course you would see the differences, but when I look at my hands, I see my mom’s hands. I don’t know when it hit me the first time, but I think of it so much more often now that I have kids.  It comes from the way I touch my babies. I lay my palm on Bryce’s cheek and run my thumb back and forth over his eyebrow.  When Reed’s hands are cold I put them inside both of mine to warm them up.  To make Bryce smile I tap my finger on his nose.  When I’m holding Reed in a hug I put my fingers in his hair or when I look at his face I’m constantly running my fingertips through his hair to sweep it to the side.

This sometimes gives me a feeling of nostalgia and makes me miss my mom and the way she touches me. The way she warms my hands in hers, the way she arranges my hair when it’s gone awry. The way she runs her thumb over my knuckles when she holds my hand in church.  Sometimes leads to the rope fraying and I begin to miss my mom and the way she mothers me.  The way she’s always on my side when I’m upset and venting to her.  The way she finds the simplest things I do or say side-splintering-hilarious. The way she sky rockets my self-confidence with her praise and encouragement, be it about my art, my writing, my grades, my singing, or my ideas.  The way she involves herself as much as possible to make me feel special.  
She shows genuine excitement, like when she came to watch me race in the RedMan Triathlon. She displays sincere interest, like when she would take off from work in the middle of the day to see me when my sophomore drama class was performing short plays at the elementary school.

Yes, I have my mom’s hands. I watched the way they changed from the hands of a daughter to the hands of a wife and now the hands of a mommy. They are gentle, animated, and protective.  The hands don’t make the mother, but I hope I learned enough from my mom to be a great one.