Tiny Hands

Tiny hands create intrinsic circles on my weary back. My mind whirls with all the tasks that I could be doing, but an impossibly heavy 30-someodd-pound frame keeps me pinned to the soft-carpeted floor.

I’m on the brink of pulling myself from this glorious relaxed state, almost absolutely sure that the laundry is multiplying at an alarming rate in the next room over.

His chipper voice breaks through my inner arguments, “More twains, mommy!!”

And just like that, I’m sure I am supposed to be here right now. I’m sure that I’m not supposed to move a muscle, except to pull myself up to play “more twains.”

There will be many more hours in the day to fold the laundry. There will many more hours in the day to tend the growing pile of dishes. But my hours with a certain little fair-headed mister who desires the company of his Momma and playing trains with her are limited, at best.

There will come a day when those tiny hands will turn into masculine, lean hands. That tiny little frame will grow in stature and tower over me one day. That chipper little voice that beckons me to play will deepen. And there will come a day that my company won’t be of utmost importance to him.

I was thisclose to missing it today; thisclose to missing out on something big, great and magnificent. I’m grateful I didn’t, and only wish I had a shirt that said, “I look like this because playing ‘twains’ was more important than 6 minutes of hot water, soap, conditioner and a hair dryer.”