Last night I was clipping the kid’s fingernails, because I lead a very glamorous and exciting life, and I stopped to look at ONE’s 4-year-old hands. I feel like I don’t stop and take the time to look – to really look – at my children often enough.

ONE’s fingers and hands have gotten so big. I can’t remember the last time I really saw them. He has clubby hands that come from my side of the family, with stubby, bitten-down nails and a trace of grease leftover from the other day when he took the chain off his bike. He has big boy hands … the kind that are used to build forts and space creatures and houses out of Lincoln Logs.

He laughed and said, “What are you doing, Mommy?” I told him I was just looking at his hands. Then I told him how big he’s getting and before long, his hands will be as big as mine. Then we discussed his plan to become a train conductor.  

This morning, TWO and I walked ONE to class and were returning to the car when I noticed our shadows on the ground. My baby is walking. And before I know it, he’ll have big boy hands, too. So I stopped and took a picture and I am so glad I did, even though I look like a boxy giant with a teeny tiny head.

I wouldn’t trade this day for anything.

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