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.


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