Hands

Sometimes, when we walk together, Nathan will hold my hand.
Sometimes he waves his arms around like an indignant octopus in an often successful attempt to escape restraint.
But sometimes he will hold my hand.
There is something about that little hand wrapped firmly around my index finger that just melts my heart.
I look down and see my tousel-haired little boy walking beside me, occasionally looking up at me, eyes shining with excitement at a truck, or, even better, a purple bus.
But just under the skin of that reality is my dark eyed baby, blinking sleepy milk drunk eyes at me, soft fingers curled reflexively around mine.
And behind that? The picture I carry in my heart of my fetus, thumb in mouth, holding onto the umbilical cord for security.  He is anchored no less firmly in my heart now than he was then, but he is less often attached to my side.

Whether it is two spoons at dinner or not holding my hand in a parking lot "Na-Na", as he calls himself, has his own ideas about how things should be done.

It makes me happy. And quite frankly, it makes me sad.  My sometimes baby, sometimes boy will too soon be always boy.