Hands

I remember as a young child, analyzing my grandmother's wrinkly hands. Soft, pale and oh so wrinkly. Her skin would move when I ran my finger over it, smoothing and then wrinkling again. Hands that were worn with love, hands that embody motherhood and grand-motherhood.

I clearly remember, about 10 years ago (on my wedding day), looking at my mom's hands, mentally comparing them to my grandmother's. Aged, yes. Wrinkled, not nearly as much. But young like mine (at the time)...no.

Today...I found myself frozen, staring at my hands...my not-so-young hands. My at-the-beginning-stages-of-becoming-wrinkled hands. My been-washed-a-million-times hands. They are starting to look like my Mother's hands. While I am proud to wear this badge of motherhood, I am a little caught off guard by it.

I'll take a deeper look into this whole 'wrinkled hand' thing later when I don't have two children clamouring for my attention.  For now, I think it is time to find some lotion. :)