I was flipping through a magazine in a waiting room the other day and read that the best way to judge a woman’s age is by looking at her hands.
I think my own hands look older than they should, maybe because my skin is so fair and thin and I’ve never been good about putting sunscreen on the backs of my hands. Maybe they look average, or even young, and I’m just used to toddler hands.
Really, it’s kind of amazing they don’t look older, consider how busy they’ve been.
My hands have held Ryan’s hands a million times. They have swaddled newborns. They cut an umbilical cord. They’ve written letters. They’ve snapped photos we’ll cherished for the rest of our lives. They have typed out books and hit PUBLISH. They have whisked eggs, ladled soup, sprinkled salt. They have planted gardens. They have picked raspberries, bell peppers, strawberries, carrots, onions, a pumpkin. They have pulled weeds. Held books and turned pages. Steered bicycles, changed diapers, brushed hair. They’ve had IVs inserted into them. They’ve folded in on themselves and prayed for a miracle. They’ve been raised to the Heavens. They’ve scraped ice off a windshield, dialed 9-1-1, crossed items off to-do lists.
My hands have been pretty busy.