Look Ma! No Hands!

          A few nights ago I was out running some errands. In an effort to kill two birds with one stone I was acting as passenger, while my oldest son practiced his driving. We were parked in front of the Girl Scout leader’s house while my youngest ran up to drop off some papers, and chatting-- which is one of my favorite parts about teaching the kids to drive, all that one-on-one time they are required by law to spend with me. I happened to glance over at his hands as they rested on the steering wheel and I was surprised by how big they seemed. When taken on a whole, as they grow, you don’t notice the changes too much. Sure, over time you recognize they are now a foot taller than you, or that the round baby cheeks are gone forever, but day-to-day it is much less significant.

            I said something to the effect of, “My God! When did your hands get so big?”  He laughed and took my hand holding it up against his to measure the difference. Broad palm, long fingers, this was the hand of a man, not my little boy. But more than that, the feeling of his hand placed in mine brought to mind a memory, from my mind’s recesses, not  so much forgotten (never forgotten) but tucked sadly away: The first time he let go.

            This particular child has always been an affectionate boy. Always ready with a hug and a smile that melts your heart. Whenever we walked his hand just naturally found it’s way into mine. I didn’t really think much about it. It was mostly habit, left over from the toddler days. I’m not even sure who held who’s hand, they just always seemed to find their way together. His skin was always warm even in winter and it just seemed to belong in mine. So there I was one day, like any other, walking hand in hand with my son, when tragedy struck.

            He was probably about 8 years old, maybe seven, maybe nine, but in that range. He had been to a doctor’s appointment or some other event which had caused him to miss the early part of the school day and I was walking him to class and chatting about whatever eight year olds like to tell their mothers. Then, almost imperceptibly, I felt his little warm hand slip from mine. Simultaneously, I noticed two young boys had rounded the corner and were walking toward us. My son never broke stride. He continued as though nothing significant had happened, just kept talking about whatever eight year olds talk about with their mothers-- their deeply devastated mothers.

            I recall lifting my hand to my face as we walked and staring at the spot his hand used to be, as though there was an answer there, at least an answer I liked better than the one I already knew in my heart. My son was “too big” to hold mommy’s hand. Somehow, without my knowing, he had instinctively come by this information. I could still feel the fading warmth of his hand, but now it felt like a burning that proceeded up my arm and into my heart. As the two boys passed us we exchanged polite ‘Hellos’ and then continued on our way, as though nothing major had occurred, but inside I was being consumed by a deep sadness. My children would out grow me. I had always known it. It was, of course, “The Plan” but somehow I had never actually been expecting it. I was blindsided.

            Not one to be daunted I decided to gently probe the situation. I wanted to throw myself on the playground before us and beg him to hang-on for just a few more years. I wasn’t ready to let go yet, but one of us had to be a grown up, and it would be wrong for me to let it be the eight year old.

            So,” I asked, “No more holding hands?” (It’s like that huh?)

            He shook his head. “No.” he answered gently. “Not at school.”

            “Ok. I get that. What about other places. Can I still hold your hand at home?”

            “Sure. “

            “How about kisses? Can I still kiss you goodbye?”

            “ In the car.” (Well, that seemed reasonable.)

            “What about hugs? Can I still hug you?”

            “Yep.” (He’s still a man of few words.)

            “Just in the car?”

            “ No. Hugs are ok… sometimes, you know?”

            “Yeah. I know.”

We reached his classroom and, following the new rules, I extended my hand to shake his. “I guess I’ll see you afterschool.”

            “Ok.” He said, and disappeared into his room.

 On my way back I had to resist the urge to punch his punk-ass little friends. I tried really hard not to cry. I made it all the way to my car. I felt incredibly stupid for being so hurt by something so natural. Of course he didn’t want to hold my hand anymore; he was a big boy-- getting bigger. It was completely appropriate. But my heart was no less broken.

            Still I had to respect the kid’s choice. I couldn’t be one of those mothers. For awhile I was careful about where and how I showed my affection, letting him lead the way. Eventually, thank God, he outgrew the dumb idea that boys can’t be affectionate. He started to snuggle while we watched TV and hold my hand, or let me play with his hair. Now, a decade later, he stops and hugs me, for no particular reason when we pass each other in the hallway, or leans against me while we watch TV. And I’m grateful every time, because I can still feel the exact spot where the emptiness began, like a stigmata, and it saddens me to remember the loss. So, sitting there in the car while he measured our hands against each other, I intertwined my fingers in his and squeezed, knowing that you never really know when it will be your last chance.

            “I love you.” I said.

            He smiled and squeezed back, “I love you too.”