Many Hands To Love

Eden, my little baby daughter, your hands are still so tiny.  

“She’s sure to be a piano player,” someone says when they catch a sight of your hands.  You reach for the pen in my hand, reaching with such determination I’m certain someday you'll be a writer.  Your grasp is that of a small monster; strong, fierce and covered in drool.  When you smile at me, I know all is right in the world.  

Your tiny hands remind me to slow down because soon, they will be the hands of a young lady.

Reef, my little puppy.  At times, I’ve compared you to a Labrador.  I know some day you’ll be big and strong because you have such large paws.  

Your independence sets you apart from other 2 year-olds.  You carry frozen chicken into the living room and insist I make dinner.  You scoot a dining room chair over to the kitchen sink, turn the water on and wait for your bath to fill.  You ask to go on a walk, then fill a bag with pretzels and sit down in the stroller, eating your snack while I put my walking shoes on.  

If life were about drinking juice, playing in the garden hose and watching Baby Mozart, then you’d have life all figured out, wouldn’t you.

Mayer, my big 5 year-old boy, trying everyday to keep up with your older brothers.  You play basketball with them and are actually serious competition because you try so hard.  As the middle child, you fight for your space and turn the spotlight on your sweet little face so you can shine for a while.  

I still hear the toddler-tone in your voice when you say “I love you, Mommy.”  A vanilla milkshake will calm any heartache.  You care about your style, always wanting to dress with a little flare.  You take risks with sports, friendships and saying what’s on your mind.  You have an attention to detail, just look at your artwork displayed on the fridge.  

You hold my hand like we’re best friends.

Payson, my 8 year-old pistol.  Jumping, leaping, running; fast is your middle name.  

You have the coordination of a professional athlete and the sportsmanship of a true gentleman.  You can almost palm a basketball.  You race to school with the wind blowing through your hair, rush through your homework certain whoever finishes first is the best and dash to complete your chore, only because you think it’s a competition.  

The idea that winning isn’t everything is not something you believe.  Your faith in Jesus keeps you focused on being kind to others and you tell me every day you love me.  Friendship is very important to you. 

Chandler, my 11 year-old with the spirit of an old man.  Your maturity is your strength.  Your hands are as big as mine, but not as big as your daddy’s.

You see the big picture in life and offer to help because you know you are capable.  Wisdom isn’t something you can learn, it’s something you’re born with.  You understand my moods, offering to help when I’m overwhelmed and bringing words of encouragement and love.  You hurt when those you love are hurt.  You see the good in others and understand everyone one around you has something special to offer the world.  

You want to be a doctor because of your desire to help others.  You read like a whiz, then come to me and tell me about the world you visited.  You don’t like change, haircuts or vegetables.  

My children, the day you were born, you took my finger in your little hand and held on tight.  This journey is ours to share.  I watch you grow, knowing you will be little for such a short time.  Tiny fingers reaching for me, then for toys and then in a blink of an eye, for a #2 pencil, writing your name, only later to follow in fancy cursive penmanship.  You reach for my hand and I help you up the stairs.  Soon, you are running up the stairs with not even a hand on the wood banister.  You reach for the door handle, but you can’t quit reach it.  In a blink of an eye, you’re turning the door knob, opening the door and running outside to ride your bike.  This Christmas, all I want to do is hold your hand a little longer.