This is probably the most random blog post that I have ever written. But it is actually something that I have wanted to write about for a long time. It is a story about these old hands of mine.
Yep, you heard me, my hands.
When I was growing up, people who saw these hands would always comment on how old they looked when compared to the rest of me. Never in a malicious way, but in a holy-hell-you-have-old-people’s-hands” kind of way. It made me want to hide my hands away, but that was impossible of course.
I mean, how was I going to pay for a bottle of wine (I mean water… no… I mean wine) without getting my hands out in public? How would I swipe my iPhone and call my husband to ask him where he put the remote control? #turnsoutiwastheonewholostit #firstworldproblems
Now, these hands have been like this for as long as I can remember. Probably since the day I was born. I can imagine someone screaming at the sight of my hands in the delivery room. Just kidding. My mum certainly would have written about that in my birth story, right??
Even looking at them right now, they look wrinkly to a terrifying degree.
Some may politely say they look “weathered”. However some may also say that they look like the hands of a washerwoman from the 1800’s whose hands got stuck in the left leg of a plantation owners long johns which then subsequently got snagged on a submerged tree trunk during the rivers “rinse cycle” after a big storm that she couldn’t escape from.
Some (cough me cough) may exaggerate. But whatevs’.
However 95% of the time they are so dry that I can’t for the life of me open up a plastic bag to be able to line the bin in the kitchen or pick up dog poo. Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. Stick talcum powder all over your fingers and then try to open up a plastic bag. Its bloody hard work I tell you. You wont get anywhere. #thestruggleisreal.
And wearing tights? Oh my god don’t get me started on that. Ironically I work in an industry where I have to touch samples of tights all of the time, and every time I do so I am afraid that my wrinkly and dry fingers will rip the delicate things to shreds. Its happened. I have seen it. So ashamed.
However, somehow over the years I have learned to love them, because these hands show MUCH more than my age (much more, like, thirty years more).
They show the life I have lived. They show the people that I have loved.
These old hands of mine may look like beige coloured cucumbers that have been sitting in the fridge for a month, but they do actually reflect the 35 years that I have lived on this earth. They show the strength of everything I have been through, whether great or small.
These old hands have held on tight to people I love as they have hugged me or I them.
They have held tightly onto the hands of others when they have needed me.
These hands have smoothed my husbands hair after he has had a tough day at work, whilst he has rested his head in my lap for comfort.
They have held his hands whilst we said our wedding vows, committing ourselves to each other for the rest of our lives, and then again while we danced our first dance together.
These hands have covered my mouth when my husband has made me laugh so hard that I have cried.
These hands shook with excitement whilst I held onto the pregnancy test that told me I was pregnant.
And they rested on my belly, where I carried my little son for 9 months, marvelling at each incredible kick and each wriggle while my heart burst with love.
They have cradled my infant son to my chest so my eyes could soak up every delicious detail of his beautiful face from the moment I met him.
They gave him something to suckle when he was distressed and crying from hunger. Read about my struggle with breastfeeding here.
These hands have rubbed his sweet back in slow circles whilst searching for that elusive burp in the middle of the night as a baby, savouring the closeness that only lasts for such a short while.
They have wiped the tears from his beautiful brown eyes when he has cried and looked to me for comfort.
#probablybecauseweranoutofbananas
They have smoothed his crazy and wild hair back from his sweet little face and cupped those cheeks whilst smothering him with kisses.
These hands of mine have tickled him relentlessly, drawing out those perfect squeals of laughter which are completely to die for.
And they have held his hand for no other reason than that he loves me and needs to hold my hand in that one particular moment.
They have clapped out a beat for him when he had to stop half way to the park to dance to music that only he could hear, in the sunshine.
These hands of mine have cooked food with love for my family. They have also burnt things to a crisp and for some reason my husband has humoured me and eaten those things anyway. Such love returned.
And they have typed word upon word upon word as I have poured my heat and soul out into my blog- to share my life and my love with others, to create a better future for myself and my family one day.
These hands are no longer a sense of shame. They are a sense of pride. Because now I can see just how those deeply etched lines reflect a life well lived. A life full of love, laughter and adventure. A life that I wouldn’t change in any way.
So now I am off to moisturise them. :-/
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xxxxx
