Hands

My children's hands never cease to amaze me.
I have been fascinated by them since they were in utero.
(I also have a thing for their feet, but since the boys have begun to grow more smelly, my love affair is waning fast.)
I have held their hands when they are grasping, unsure newborn looking for comfort.
I have felt their fingers clutch my own as they took their first steps.
I have watched as baby thumbs slipped out of pursed baby mouths searching for comfort.
I have seen them grasp bike handles, thrown balls, and beloved bears.
And I am amazed.
And the best is yet to come.
If I brainwash my children right, I will see those hands hold diplomas and medical degrees.
I will watch as they place rings on their wives hands, or as they are given a ring by their husband.
I will watch as my sons mop their wives brows as she labors to bring their children into the world. I will watch as their hands tremble with a mixture of terror and excitement that I remember so clearly in their father.
I will see my daughter grip the sheets, straining to bring forth her child.
I will see them hold their own babies hands through all of the firsts that a child brings.
And, hopefully, when I am ready to depart, their hands will be the last thing I feel, holding my own, strong and sure in the knowlegde that I always was there, arms outstretched, hands ready to catch them if they fell.
It is no wonder I have a lvoe affair with my children's hands.