Old Hands

     I was sitting on the couch reading the other day when I happened to glance down at my hand. The first thought that hit me was, "Wow. When did my hands get old?" I realized that they look similar to my mom's hands; they remind me of hers. You can really see the veins on top, there are actually a few sun spots (although maybe those are just freckles that show up in the summer!), and I can see some wrinkles. Definitely not the hands of a twenty year old.

    Then I started thinking about all these hands have been through. They've done some living and have gained some experience. My hands could tell some stories.

     My hands have packed moving boxes multiple times. The biggest move was out of my childhood home in 1991. Sad day, indeed. Including moves up to Western after being home for the summer, I've packed and moved seven times (I think!). 

     They've signed a marriage license and certificate, and then four years later they signed divorce papers. That was a surreal moment, walking out of the courthouse, my marriage over. I met my sister and mom for some greasy food and beer at 2:00 on a Wednesday afternoon.

     My hands have changed countless diapers, both from when I babysat and those of my niece and nephew. I remember one horrible weekend when my nephew was so, so sick. I was taking care of both kids while my sister and her husband were away for the weekend. I can't tell you how many times I changed him. As soon as I got a new diaper on, he filled it again. His little butt was raw and I think we were both crying. My mom came over to help me, but Danny cried, "No. Aunt Thoothzy do it!" I swear, as soon his parents got home, his pooping stopped.

     I've played softball, basketball, soccer (throw-ins), ping pong, pickle ball, badminton, mini-golf, tetherball, tennis, thrown frisbees, and swam with these hands. Sports have been a big part of my life. Lots of lessons learned and good friends made, both as a kid and adult.

     I've written many essays throughout high school, college, and grad school. In the early years they were handwritten, but now of course, they're word processed. Oh, I just remembered learning to type in junior high!

     When I was younger, my dad slapped the back of my right hand for disobeying him. We got our first microwave, he told me not to touch it, my brother came home, I started pushing buttons, couldn't get the screen back to normal, got busted. That flippin' hurt! Lesson learned.

     My brother got in a terrible car accident and was paralyzed. The last Thanksgiving we had as a family, I wiped some mashed potatoes off of his hand because he couldn't do it for himself. Me, thirteen years old and my brother, twenty-one years old. To say that that was an odd moment is an understatement. It is, however, a memory I hold dear to my heart. These hands also laid a rose on his chest at his funeral a few weeks later.

     My hands have written hundreds of lesson plans over the past twelve years and have graded even more tests, reports, projects and papers. Thinking back to my first year teaching and now about to start my thirteenth year, I've learned a lot and am continuing to do so. It's fun going through the first-year teacher stuff with my little sister and sharing with her some tips of the trade. She's given me some ideas, too :)

     With my hands I've held babies, attempted cooking, learned to drive a stick shift, mowed lawns, gripped another hand in fear, and given pats on backs. I've written thank you notes, wrapped presents, petted animals, folded them in prayer, and flossed. I've held the cord while parasailing, have reeled in some good sized fish, and shucked oysters. 

     So, my hands have been through some good times and bad times. They have character and personality. I'll take the lines, the spots, the scars. They've lived, they're me, they're who I am. 

     And I'm not done with 'em yet.