I sometimes look at my hands. They're not my mom's or my dad’s. My fingers are not skinny at all. I've not always loved the way my hands look, but they are hands that have held my babies, played the piano, cheered on my kiddos, worked in the garden, they are hands that have served. The skin is wrinkling now. Dry and cracked sometimes. My hands tickle and rub little and not so little bodies these days. I wash them constantly. They travel to my face in stress, in happiness, in thought. They run through my hair. They are a sign of miles traveled, years of mothering done and years of mothering still to come.
I am in that spot. The spot my mother was in, and her mother before her, and my great-grandmother, and her mother...all of us, opening our eyes wide to the shock and awe that is motherhood. Realizing that this is our time, these bits of clay ours for the making. Hoping we're good enough for this grave and joyous responsibility.
Will I fail them in too many ways? Will I be proud? Will I be a happy grandmother someday, full of wisdom? Perhaps a better cook? A better friend?
But my kids. MY kids. They would make anyone a better person, so why not me? I will hold fast and tight to the ones I love. Their importance reaches past my understanding.
I am in that spot. The spot my mother was in, and her mother before her, and my great-grandmother, and her mother...all of us, opening our eyes wide to the shock and awe that is motherhood. Realizing that this is our time, these bits of clay ours for the making. Hoping we're good enough for this grave and joyous responsibility.
Will I fail them in too many ways? Will I be proud? Will I be a happy grandmother someday, full of wisdom? Perhaps a better cook? A better friend?
But my kids. MY kids. They would make anyone a better person, so why not me? I will hold fast and tight to the ones I love. Their importance reaches past my understanding.
