No One Can Tell You

The little hands of my children have always fascinated me.  Evelyn has always had these tiny, capable hands and Liam has these wonderfully chubby hands that can cause all sorts of mischief.
This morning, with wild sleep tangled hair, Ev decided that they should color. She drug out the stuff and they proceeded to get on with it.

I was enjoying the quiet and the slowing of requests when I glanced over at them. When I looked, I saw these little hands scribbling away and I had one of those moments. One of those Mama Moments that grab your heart and wring it out.

My children will not always be here with me, quietly coloring on a snowy morning. If I do my job right, they will grow and become individuals of their own right. They will one day fly my nest and seek out adventures on their own.
I intend to enjoy them fully while they are here. I want to be able to remember a six year old girl's hands, the nails covered in chipped red polish, the hang nails, the sweet imperfections.

 I want to remember a two year old's chubby fingers and wrists, the determined grip on not one but two or three crayons.

 I want to remember what it feels like to be walking along and have a cool tiny hand slip inside of mine as we make our way down a sidewalk. I want to remember cleaning accumulated goo and sticky business out of crevices made by toddler chub.  These are my children and every bit of them is precious to me.

For now, the moment has passed. Those little hands so quietly coloring a moment before have moved on to  other things. My two children are standing at a window, watching big white chunks drift lazily down from the sky. They are standing close together and mingling their breath, then they reach up with those precious hands and trace designs in the fog. And they are giggling and plotting about Papa coming home and taking them out into the new winter.
I never knew it was possible to feel like this. No one ever told me.