Tuesday, April 28, 2015
I Want to Hold Your Hand
Years later when grandboy number one was born, I couldn't wait for my first opportunity to study ten perfect fingers equaled by ten wiggly toes. I wrapped five of those little fingers around one of mine. And he hung on tight, It's a baby reflex, I guess. But I hung on, too, with a Granma reflex of my own.
It doesn't take long, though just a little longer than overnight, before that same little boy learned to say, "no" and "I do it." I said, "come" and he headed, fingers and toes, in the opposite direction. Ah, toddler. Hand holding gets further and further apart, and sometimes carries more of an air of punishment than appreciation - at least for the mini man I attempt to corral.
Now at 9 years of age and approaching 5' tall, Bryce is no longer a midget. Somewhere around this age, little boys become squirrels. If you ask for a hug, he will either run the other direction screaming or launch himself into you like a Chicago Bear linebacker. There is no in between. I know from experience that this squirrelliness will last for several years. Rather than holding a hand, the little rodent will swing his arm at you, just barely missing - if his aim is good. Or giving love "taps" if it isn't.
On a walk home from the park the other day, Bryce was testing his aim with mixed results. At one point, I grabbed at his arm and came up with his hand. To my surprise, it was half a block before he pulled his hand away to scratch his nose. I was thrilled with the time I got, and would never have dared to hope for more. But nose itch alleviated, his hand slipped back into mine as we continued down the sidewalk.
Newborn fingers are a marvel, indeed, precious beyond belief. But holding hands with a squirrel - now that is the stuff of Granma dreams!