Sunday, April 03, 2011
It snowed today. These were taken right before the girls went outside to play in the cold and fluffy flakes. Their own personal heaven.
I sometimes look at my hands. They're my mom's. Fingers are not skinny, not fat, something in between. The skin is wrinkled now. Dry and cracked sometimes. Skin freckly and plentiful.
My fingers wrap around little ankles and ears and knees. I wash them constantly. They travel to my face in stress, in happiness, in thought. They run through my hair. They are a sign of miles traveled, years of mothering done and years to come.
I am in that spot. The spot my mother was in. And her mother before her. And my great-grandmother, and her mother...
All of us, opening our eyes wide to the shock and awe that is motherhood. Realizing that this is our time, these bits of clay ours for the making. Hoping we're good enough for this grave and joyous responsibility.
Will I fail them in too many ways? Will I be proud? Will I be a happy grandmother someday, full of wisdom? Perhaps a better cook? A better friend?
But my girls. MY girls. They would make anyone a better person, so why not me?