My baby boy is 10 months old. And in many ways, he’s not such a baby anymore. He’s mobile. He’s getting better at communicating his wants and needs. He’s growing (oh, is he growing he is 32″ tall and in size 2T clothes). But thankfully, blessedly, there are still parts of him that are very much baby. And one of those parts is his precious little hands.
They are chubby and round and kissable. He has dimples more than knuckles. Most days lately, I have to wash those hands 50 times a day to wipe off whatever mess he has recently gotten in to. And at night, when he lays next to me to nurse, those hands always find their way to my face.
He’s an active nurser, always has been. He has to be doing something while he’s nursing. And no matter how many blankets, toys, necklaces, or fingers I try to offer him instead, his favorite thing to do while he nurses is touch my face. I admit, sometimes it drives me bananas. That kid is strong and a good pull of the lip or a finger up the nose can be pretty painful. But mostly, I relish those moments. Those moments when he gently pats my cheek. Lightly traces my lip with his finger. Eyes closed, drinking my warm milk, reaching out to reassure himself that his Mama is right there…..that’s a priceless moment. The baby years are way too short, I know this all too well being that he is my fifth child and my oldest is seventeen. The time goes so darn fast.
So for now, I’ll wipe those little hands as many times as it takes. I’ll let him grab and pat me if it comforts him. I’ll teach him how to hold a pencil and write his name someday. Someday I’ll hold that little hand as he takes his first steps into a classroom.
Someday he won’t need to hold my hand anymore.
So for today, I’m going to take some time to appreciate and bask in the miracle of this baby boy God has given me, and his little hands.