Those hands. The ones I was so worried wouldn’t know what to do when they couldn’t rub my round belly in circles.
Well, they have become the hands of a mother.
Changing stinky diapers quickly in the night. Wiping spit up with my own fingers. Tracing your cheeks. Holding your tiny hands. Swaddling you. Tickling your cheek desperately for a smile.
They will never be looked at the same way again.
My hands, like the rest of my body, has a whole new purpose.