Two Hands

I'm walking down our suburban street on an overcast, late fall evening.  Clouds under clouds under clouds of stress - work stress, moving stress, financial stress, stress about stress - weigh me down until I feel my shoulders scraping the sidewalk.  When suddenly I'm interrupted by a warm tiny hand pushing into mine, bringing me back to now.  Here I was, walking with my two year old son the four blocks from our apartment into the village.  He had wanted to run on his own, "no help", but now had tired of that and wanted a more leisurely pace. He ran up next to me and grabbed my hand.

"Hand?"

 With his simple request I was reminded what all of this is about.  None of these things that are causing some serious daily strife mean much on their own.  We hope that we are building a life that will be better for our family and especially for Benji .  His job, his effortlessly executed role, is to remind us that we are a family first. Our plans and dreams for him are important but they do not override today.

Benji's little hands are extra busy these days.  Banging drums, hammering, poking the dog, showing off his bellybutton and drawing on the chalk board.  It's amazing to see that in only a few months he has learned to flip pages of a magazine (Papi has taught him well!) and feed himself quite neatly with a fork. He's learning how to satisfy his basic, immediate, and important needs on his own. Which I am glad to say include walking hand-in-hand with his chastised and much happier Dad, down our quiet village street, in the half light of an autumn night.