I wonder when they will stop holding my hand. Is this the day? Walking along the waterfront, thousands of people and the whisper of a ten year old, "mama can I hold your hand?" He slips his half grown hand into mine and asks me to hold it tight. Not yet. Not today. He still wants to hold my hand.
Then another, a little more independent, pretends he does not want a mama kiss on the cheek, but always leans in for one, a while later asks, "can we pinky hug while we walk?" So I extend a pinky and we walk and chat away with our pinky's hugging.
Being the mother of boys is not always a dainty and delicate task. Stepping into the zone of battles of the pillows, my entire home, at times being used as a jungle gym. That messy chocolate face wiped on my new white shirt. The running, always running both indoors and out. Skinny boys who jab that bony elbow in my thigh to prop up. Sometimes three times a day. Some days I am ragged. I wonder how I am going to keep up. Then those moments of a hand slipping into mine. I wonder when they will stop holding my hand?
That day will come. I already have one grown son that has exchanged that hand holding for a loving embrace. I know I can't freeze time, but I can write about those times, ponder the joys of being a mother being loved by her boys. For now still hand holding and pinky hugging.