August 3, 2013

Hands

"Dude! What happened to your fingers? They're all, like, puffy and stuff."

I watch Tuck look at his fingers, quickly evaluating himself, his hands and how they compare, and how to answer the question.

I remember when I was six, after I got my first haircut, when a punk on the playground asked me if I was a boy or a girl. And in that single moment, the question entered my mind that my gender might not be obvious, that I might not be feminine enough to signify my identity, and that I could never, ever again get a short haircut in my life. Hair must be the deal breaker; it must define the girl, I learned.

In the moment with Tucker, I see him fold his fingers into fists, putting them away if they're going to be a topic of discussion. And I realize this is the moment when the question will enter his mind, whether his hands are abnormal, his fingers are too big, if perhaps he is an odd misfit who must keep his fingers hidden and secret.

Not on my watch, kiddo.

"He has his dad's hands. Those fingers are big and strong, like his dad," I say. And I watch Tucker unfold his fingers and look at them again.

"Yeah. I have my dad's hands. He died. I have his hands."

Anytime I needed help fastening a clasp on my necklace, he would say, "I'm not sure I can help you very much - remember I have fat fingers."

When he needed to open something that required precision, he would say, "Bring me those fingernails. I have fat fingers."

He would input a cell phone number, one digit off. And he would say, "Ah. I fat fingered it."

His hands were thick and strong. Firm and gentle.

Be proud, Tuck. His hands are yours.

8 comments on “Hands”

  1. I love that you recognized this and told him that... we help write the story they will hear on repeat for the rest of their lives. Way to write a good one!

  2. I have huge hands, like Jan. They have an extra lumpy part on the outside of the hand that bulges down from the baby fingers. My sister had beautiful, tiny, perfect hands, and I was always embarrassed about mine in comparison to hers. My mother saved the day when she told me that my Pops (her dad) had huge, perfect hands, which meant he was a hard worker, and that I was just like Pops.

    That helped me, immensely.

    I've passed on my genes to quite a few of my grandkids who are also blessed with huge hands. They're strong, and beautiful in their own way.

    You did well in reminding your son that his hands are just like his dad's hands.

  3. I lost my mom and dad when I was just out of high school. I still remember the day I looked down at my hands and realized I had my dad's hands. Kinda of a bitter sweet feeling that day.

    Thanks for sharing your life, blog, and your heart with the world.

  4. Good call, Mom. As a woman with massive hands, I recognize that issue in it's entirety. I'll never forget dating a man a few years back who shook my hand that first greeting and said, "My, you have huge hands." He didn't get the second date. Yes, they're huge, but they're beautiful and they belong to me!

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