Its a small gesture.
Simple.
Or so it seems.
The clasp of hands. Two people connected by mere fingers intertwined.
When Nick and I first fell in love, we were on a hiking expedition with a group of APU students and we shared our tent with another guy. At night, I'd lay in the middle of the tent on my side, eyes locked on Nick's, our bodies wrapped in fleece and down, only our hands touched.
Before Elias could walk, I longed to be able to hold his hand. To cross a street or just to saunter down a sidewalk and look at signs. He rolled with a walker and then canes, using his hands to ambulate, so they were never free to hold mine. I remember the envy I felt when I saw other parents holding their children's hands. Such a simple act.
Or is it?
Now that Elias often ditches his canes for short distances or uses only one, when he feels tired or meets uneven ground he often asks, "Mom, can I hold your hand?"
And in that crazy way that time works, I sometimes sigh and reluctantly slow my pace to walk alongside my son, forgetting how fiercely I once craved exactly this.
"Mom, can you hold my hand?"
I can! Yes, I can! It is soooo amazing how far you've come! My boy, who they said may never walk or talk, look at you go! My prodigal son...
...is what I don't say.
I don't celebrate his every word, even though I clearly remember my fear that they cut his vocal chords. Remember standing next to his isolette the day they pulled him off the respirator, holding my breath, waiting to finally, after seven weeks, hear his first cry.
Instead I tire of his endless questions, of hearing Mom repeated, incessantly, like an alarm I long to shut down so I can return to my dreams of a different time.
The past few weeks, I've felt more like a frazzled referee than a loving parent, constantly separating my children to their opposite corners, wishing I could trade my yellow flags for a giant white one instead.
We met with a Behavior Specialist last week to discuss Elias's violent outbursts. She observed our kids fight over a pink princess ball we found last summer.
"Typical sibling behavior..." she said later. "Especially if you remember he's not really eight, closer to four or five."
And just when I'm beginning to think I'm not really cut out for this whole parenting-for-the-rest-of-your-life gig, my children start to share.
Not always. But more than 1% of the time.
A small shift of the cosmic plates. The passing over of a toy before Mom or Dad demands it. An offering of a candy corn, from brother to sister, initiated all on his own.
In the car, on a surprise adventure, Elias leans over towards his sister, looks towards her face, and asks, "Olive, where do you think we're going?"
"Umm...venture!"
"I know, but where?"
A conversation. And I know it may seem simple but in the land of Elias, nothing is. Simple. Nothing.
Olive tries on her fairy butterfly outfit and I pull out my phone to take a picture. Elias, decked out in his NY Giants gear (Yeah Giants!), wants me to take a picture of him too.
"How about the two of you together?"
"Ok," Elias says, unusual for him to comply and then, "Olive, lets hold hands!"
Oh my heart.
God I love my kids:
Later, we dance in the kitchen as the Avett Brothers sing: My hearts like a kick drum. My hearts like a kick drum...
Elias grabs my hand and then reaches for Olive's. "Let's all hold hands!" he says.
And so we do.
The four of us, making a circle in the kitchen, fingers entwined.
