My Mother’s Hands

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.

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