I really enjoy looking at my children's hands. It seems that just when I am awed by how grown up my kids seem, I look at their hands and realize how young they still are. My four-year-old told me something "officially" the other day. She is picking up more and more of these grown-up phrases. When I start to treat her the age she's acting and wonder why she isn't compliant, I look at her pudgy little hands and remember that I still need to treat her like the little girl she is.
My six-year-old just turned seven, and I'm all too aware that she is nearing pre-teendom, which not only makes me feel incredibly old, but incredibly scared. Before I get too far ahead of myself with worry and fear, I look at her hands and remind myself that she has a few years to go before she'll be painting on the black nail polish and giving me the "what's-your-problem" glare.
My two-year-old is getting more and more independent (and more and more difficult to control). When I feel his feather-light touch stroking my cheek or wrapping around my neck, I am reminded that, in a lot of ways, he is still my little baby who needs to be hugged and smothered (at least momentarily) with my affection.
In the same way that a woman can hide her age with a face lift but still show it in her hands, my children's hands remind me to keep perspective on their age. And I treasure every touch.
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this is just precious. i looked at my kids' hands so differently tonight.