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Love these Hands

I don't know about other mothers, but I look in the mirror and think I still look twelve. Is it possible that we don't notice ourselves aging because we no longer take pictures of ourselves anymore? Are we just too busy taking snapshots of our babes in every pretty outfit that we can't even take the time to hold up a peace sign and strike a pose in front of the washing machine?

While I may have missed my own face and body turning thirty-something, I have been affectionately following the aging of my hands. Once long and lean and covered in silver flea market rings, these hands are now strong and dry and yes, even wrinkled. For the first time in my life, I can look at a part of myself and see my own mom. In the last three years these hands have been busy doing so many new things it is no wonder they have enjoyed such a major transformation. They've been rocking babies, reading bedtime books, washing and changing bottoms, mastering peek-a-boo bras, telling finger stories, knitting miniature caps, drawing millions of alphabets, making sidewalk art and Playdough hippos, holding back pukey hair, and braiding hundreds of plastic ponies. And to think, these hands have now also written a novel and dropped it in the mail. I love these hands.

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