November 30^th, 2012

Hailey’s Hands

 

"I'm the little boy who goes drum drum drum. I'm the little drumming boy drum drum drum" -Hailey, singing “The Little Drummer Boy" presumably, while banging on a cookie tin.

 

     Tonight as we lay in bed holding hands, Christmas lights twinkling under the crack of the door, I notice how small your hands feel. I hold them soft and tiny close and strong. I've been holding them a number of years now. (Three and a half, to be exact.) I also notice how capable they have become.

     Today you turned the crank and made your own foam farm animals. I always used to have to make them for you. And we made play dough pizzas and you walked me through each step, as you rolled balls, used rolling pins, cookie cutters, and straws. Tonight we made a casserole. Nothing fancy, not even very good, but ours. You toasted bread, crumpled it, tore it into tiny pieces and put seasonings on the crumbs.

     We traded off between helping Gracie yelling on the floor. When things were hot or sharp or needing to be orchestrated I did the kitchen work while you stroked your sister's cheek and kept her happy. Then you fell right back into place, standing tall on a chair to stir, mix, measure. I took care of sister then, a diaper, a jiggle, a hug.

     We read Christmas books before bedtime next to the tree. Grace smacks and drools and tries to bend the pages wet. I remember when your hands were quite the same, chubby and full of spit. But now they are slender and cool and graceful, much like you my dear. But you were almost asleep and my typing away has caused you to get rowdy so now I will sleep hugging you tight. And you will sleep hugging me. I love you, my sweet baby, and my big girl.