Baby Hands

I have always been fascinated by my children’s hands. I would stare at their chubby fists when they were babies, avidly watching them hold a small toy or swat their baby food spoon at me. The little dimples on the backs of their hands provided endless entertainment for me as they blissfully sucked their thumbs in that peaceful way only babies can.

I would think about what those hands would accomplish as they got older, how they would learn to snap snaps and button buttons; tie shoes and hold a crayon; write their names and brush their teeth; maybe play a musical instrument or catch a ball. I would think how those hands would later hold another’s and perhaps even the hands of their own children.

Watching my children’s hands grow sometimes makes me sad. My son’s hands don’t hold mine as often as they used to, and when they do, I can feel the grown-up calluses from his karate class and see the ink stains from writing his reports in pen. I look at his hands now, and sometimes wish I could go back in time and watch him pump his baby fists in utter excitement when Elmo would show up on the T.V.

Seeing my children’s hands change is a constant reminder that their baby- and toddler-hood is becoming a distant memory. And that thought is undeniably upsetting; it’s difficult to part with that stage of motherhood.

Sometimes, I will hold my kindergartner’s hand a little longer than necessary just to feel that almost-still-a-baby hand fill my own one more time. I’ll close my eyes and pretend she is still a toddler, and I’ll press the memory of that feeling into my palm – hard – so that I will never forget the heavenly feeling of holding a little hand, of being needed.

I know that growing hands means some freedom for me, too. It means not having to help out in the bathroom as much; it means not having to dress or feed little ones; it means, essentially, not being needed as much anymore. And that’s good . . . sometimes.

Because I think there is some deep seated desire within all of us parents to be needed.

We want to help our kids, we want to keep them safe and happy. As our kids’ hands grow, though, the kids grow up, too, and we are inevitably needed less. And that’s hard to accept, albeit necessary. It forces us parents to also grow up, to move on, and to put our own hands to different uses.

But I don’t think I will ever stop missing my children’s baby hands, and all the beautiful moments that those early years bring. Life may be easier in so many ways now that they are getting older, but the sweetness of those pudgy little fingers can never be replaced.

It has been such a blessing to have been able to experience the many hours of hand-holding I have enjoyed for years. So much so, that I often think when it is time for me to leave this earth, one of my very last thoughts will be of my babies’ hands, and how they felt in mine.

* This article originally appeared on The Mommy Vortex.