I have never been one to make a huge deal about getting older. When I was little, I remember wondering why so many adults refused to admit their ages and I vowed to never be that way. For me, the longer we are alive, the more we know and the wiser we become. Getting older is something to celebrate rather than be embarrassed about. But the number of years we bear is not the only thing people complain about when it comes to aging. Fine lines, wrinkles, and skin that is less than elastic, to put it in gentle terms, are real and there is no fighting mother nature. We all want to keep our healthy, youthful appearances forever but, let's face it, this is just not going to happen. We do have a choice, however, to embrace our changes and think of them as signs of wisdom, grace, and beauty. After all, laugh lines and crows feet only emerge if you've laughed and smiled through your life.
Still in my twenties, I have so far only developed some signs of aging, but they have evolved quickly. Since my kids were born, I have quickly noticed more and more changes that I know are not just temporary. When I look closely at my face, I now understand what the commercials and magazine articles are talking about when they market firmer skin, smoother lines, and even skin tone. It doesn't take long for that youthful glow to melt into something which requires snazzy makeup tricks and special products to uphold. But the changes in my face are not the first signs of aging I have noticed. No, the first sign of aging I remember noticing is much more meaningful to me. I am not even sure when I first noticed it, but when I did I wasn't sad or anxious or stressed about it. I was happy. This first sign of aging was in my hands.
As a child, I always remember being very aware of my hands, how they were shaped and what they looked like. I remember thinking that when I grew bigger, my hands would grow too and I would be able to do more with them. As the years passed, I did do a lot with my hands. I played the flute in band (I know, I was a big dork!), I played volleyball, I could write and eventually type, I learned how to use tools and change the oil in my car, and the list goes on. So when I noticed my hands getting fine lines, freckles, increased dryness, and little scars that didn't fade all the way, I became thoughtful. I thought about how hard my hands had worked over the first twenty-some years of my life, and how accomplished I have been able to become because of them. They are my means to doing everything, and my brace when I stumble. Now, as a mother, I use my hands everyday to care for my children. They are the guide when a hand needs holding, the tools through which I can teach and play, and the gentle touch that can wipe tears away. I like to think that every touch sends a little bit more love from my heart into theirs. Each day I look at their little hands and watch as they learn to use them in so many different ways. They are so plump and full of life. Someday their hands, too, will begin to age. And I hope that they notice it and think back on all that their own hands have accomplished and smile.
Hands. Funny. I remember my mom driving me to gymnastics when I was about 10 years old when along the way she glanced at her hands atop the mini-van's steering wheel and said, "This is what my mother's hands looked like when I was a child. My hands look like hers now, I am getting older." I looked down at my hands folded in my lap and examined them, grateful for my youth. But at the same time thinking--ahh they'll look young for a longgg time yet. It was a few weeks after I had Avrill, once all the swollen puffiness in my body calmed down, that I was driving her someplace and looked at my hands on the steering wheel. They looked like my moms, and I'm okay with that. =)
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