Yesterday I looked in the mirror and gasped as I looked down to my hands because they were no longer mine, but my mother’s. I rubbed my eyes and looked again at both the fronts and the backs. Although my fingers weren’t painted brightly and adorned with dainty gold rings, they were definitely hers.
I wondered intently if I had yet earned the right to have those beautiful hands. The same hands that held my head as I cried over boys as a young girl. The same hands that fixed every cut, scrape and ouchie through the years. The same hands that held up my world for so long. I wasn’t sure if I was yet strong enough, loving enough or selfless enough.
I shook my head and silently walked from the bathroom to help my daughter get ready for school.
Then, while brushing her hair, I noticed how much her hands resembled mine. The same beautiful imperfections were there; the same long nail beds, the same Scottish pinkies and the same tufts of blond hair on her knuckles. I smiled happily as I gently took her hand and guided her out of the house towards the bus stop.
Once the bus was there I kissed her hand softly and reminded her how much I love her.
As my first baby left my side to start Kindergarten, I wiped the tears from my eyes knowing that I had, in fact, earned my mother’s hands.
I am strong enough. I am loving enough. And I am selfless enough.