Baby Hands

Ten pudgy digits, two fleshy palms. The backs are dimpled at the knuckles. Dimpled so deeply that when she straightens more than one finger at a time the divots become creases, like lines attempting to connect the dots. But the wrists are still somehow dainty. Like a bottleneck, they force the chubbiness of her forearms into bracelets overlapping her hand. I love these baby hands.
They are getting increasingly dexterous. They can pass an item back and forth and back again, hold a spoon (or anything else for that matter) in her mouth, swat a tower of blocks right over, or gently stroke her little stuffed giraffe. But that's mainly just their larger utility. Like a fine emotional tool, Lou's baby hands have whittled a spot on the list of the reasons I have so enjoyed her infancy. Because it is with those that she reaches for Curly every time she sees her. Because with them she has conducted a tactile exploration of Daddy's beard. Because she sandwiches my cheeks between them before she opens her mouth at arms length, like a glutton with a cheeseburger, on her way to give me a big wet kiss. Or at least that's what I call it. And because, those little hands reach up to me as that sweet thing's eyes flutter at half mast, my lullaby escaping while soft little fingers trace a sensory map of my face and the baby drifts off to sleep. And oh, how I love those tiny hands.