My Mother's Hands

As I was racing around the house this morning, like a crazy lady trying to get everyone ready to walk out the door, running my usual 10 minutes late, I noticed something.

I am getting my mother's hands.

In the midst of mentally checking things off of my morning checklist, bottles (check), an extra outfit for Nate (check), Autumn's lunch box (check), Autumn's book bag (check), Nate's diaper bag (check)...

I must have gone to pick something up off of the counter and when I looked down I didn't see my hands, I saw hers.

Hands that rocked three babies to sleep. Hands that brushed endless strands of hair and tied little pink shoelaces into bows. Hands that made dinner every night and cut peanut butter sandwiches into hearts for school lunches.

Hands that flipped storybook pages and glued together science projects. Hands that disciplined and hands that comforted. Hands that have held four grandchildren on the day of their births.

I saw the hands of a woman whose voice can bring me to tears even if I don't intend to cry.

The hands of a woman who was there for every school play, soccer game, softball tournament and track meet. The hands that buttoned me into my wedding dress.

I saw her hands. And I smiled.

I would be proud to have my mother's hands.