My Grandmother's Hands

Last night as I was tucking my Sara in, I realized for the first time that her fingers were long and slender, beautiful.  Those are not my hands.  And how strange that I never noticed this in the last 8 years.

When I recanted my discovery to my husband my oldest overheard.  Hannah's reaction was that not only were Sara's hands pretty, but that Sara was pretty.  But followed this with my hands are ugly, I'm ugly, I'm fat.

Now I have heard this tirade before.  She is 12 and I distinctly recall what that was like. I was just like her.  I have countered these comments in different ways, often telling her she was wrong and I wasn't going to take part in her little pity party.

But last night I genuinely remembered how it felt and I chose to shower her with compliments of how beautiful and smart and funny and wonderful she is.  I know that she does what she does just to hear me say it.  I need to say it more.  She is at such a vulnerable age and I doubt she could hear it enough.  Oh the insecurity and self-doubt that plagues that period of our lives.

She made sure to drag out my accolades long enough to delay bedtime, but it was worth it.  I placed my palm against hers; our hands are almost the same size. I made sure she knew that she has my hands. Albeit, they are hands with stubby fingers, flat nails and big knuckles. They are my gift to her.    

I shared with her that when I was very young, I used to love looking at my mother’s hands, long slender fingers with perfect pointed nails.  I hoped that someday I would have hands like hers.  Instead I ended up with my grandmother’s hands, my father’s mother.  But when I look at my hands I remember my grandmother and all that she meant to me and how much I miss her.  I wouldn’t want anyone else’s hands.  Her gift to me.