I will most always admit I am caught up in a storm of a mental mess. Worrying about something or another. Stressing over daily life activities, some important, some not. Thinking about how fast Jake is growing and looking at Rylee hoping my parenting skills are shaping her into a good kid.
And when I start a tornado of panic about laundry, what's for dinner, enough play time with Rylee, he grabs my hands. And softly yanks me back to reality.
His hands
They held onto mine during our first Jacks Mannequin concert as we sang along when we were just a few months into our relationship.
His hands
Nervously held a small ring box as he asked me to be his wife. They held onto mine as he nervously stood in front of me and repeated vows. Vows we work hard to keeping close and never let fail us.
His hands
Turned our house into a home with countless and continuous improvement projects.
His hands
Held mine when we found out our first child would be his daughter. As I always jumped off the table with excitement he wiped tears if joy with those hands.
His hands
Have picked Rylee up when she has fallen. Held her tight for hugs. Tucked her into bed. Held her high to see a Disney princess parade. Protected her from a lizard. Taught her how to use a hammer. And showed her how to high five.
His hands
Flung up with joy when news of a son would join of family. Those hands held Jake during his first few hours of being in this world and changed the first diaper.
His hands
Are rough. Scarred. Weathered and worn. They have saved lives. Fixed toys and fed babies. They are soft. Thoughtful and provide the feeling of being safely in love.
No comments:
Post a Comment