When he was born they were so so small, they were the first sign I had that he knew I was there, when those little fingers gripped me so tight, it didn't matter that it was a reflex!
His hands are a chubby reminder that he needs me, waving at me to be picked up and grabbing at my hair, my face, my top when he is cross, happy, scared or sad.
When he discovered independence at the grand age of 2 I couldn't keep his hand in mine, it represented a stifling of his freedom, a rod to keep him from the excitement he was yet to discover.
Sometimes he is too cool to hold my hand these days, an indication of how each season comes with change.
But then there are the times when he is half asleep and his little hand searches for mine in his sleep.
When he feels unsure or worried if we are out, that little chubby and often grubby hand will search me out. The invisible rope between us made visible and offering up ultimate protection.
And when his fears are alleviated and all seems fine, that lovely, warm and perfect hand slips out of mine and off he goes.
To seek out the next adventure, knowing that mine hand will always be there. Warm, safe and offering that unbreakable bond that will last a lifetime.
So to my son's little hands I say go and run free , find out what this life can offer, grab every adventure and stamp your mark on this world.
My hand will be here.
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