Don't forget their hands

I don't know quite what has gotten into me, but it is as if, all of a sudden, I am trying as hard as I can to savor every moment that Baby touches me with her chubby, little hands.

Maybe it is because when Brother comes up and holds my hands when he is excited to see me or excited about something I realize that he is not a little boy anymore. His fingers are long and actually wrap around my hand when he holds on.

Maybe it is because I am realizing that the similarity between Sister's and Baby's hands are no longer similar in size nor texture, just shape.

Baby has been communicating her needs by grabbing my finger and leading me to where she wants  or to what she wants and, all of a sudden, one day, I felt tears well up as it hit me that I won't be able to feel those tiny little hands in mine after she grows up. 

Those soft, pudgy-ended fingers sneaking their way into the palm of my hand, the sweet little knuckles grasping my finger, the palms of her soft little hands holding my face as she stares deep into my eyes to see what my soul has to say, clipping her teeny fingernails, tiny finger pokes in the frosting or newly cooked loaves of bread, baby prints all over my new fridge and clean windows...

Gone.

Only to be captured in pictures and memories.

I tend to get annoyed when she grabs my hand to lead me around several times within a few minutes dragging me and whining to get what she wants.

I want to try to savor the moments that her hand touches mine.

Because those moments don't last long enough.