Family, me, you, and hand in hand.

I squeeze back her small, bony, slender palm as if to confirm it is there.

The end of winter break. I walked hand in hand with my second daughter.
She was the only one who came with me to my hair salon, and after it was finished, we went around looking for her new shoes.
"I want ones that sparkle."
I went along with her request, and after visiting three stores, we finally found a pair that met her approval.

"I feel like I can do my best starting tomorrow!"

My second daughter beamed a smile at me.
On the way home, she held my hand tightly—a hand that is usually occupied by prior commitments, like holding my twin son or my third son.

You don't have to try so hard, you know.
Just as you are is more than enough.

I thought this, but I didn't say it out loud.
Instead, I squeezed her hand gently so I wouldn't forget the sensation, and stroked the back of her hand with my other palm.
She giggled.

The "Love Handbook" that certifies her disability sways inside my bag.
My second daughter possesses a love that is immeasurable, far beyond what that handbook could ever represent.

"It's cold, isn't it?" "It's cold!"

We walked home slowly, exchanging words like these. The bag containing her new shoes rustled every time we took a step forward.

In truth, I wasn't cold at all.
I just felt, simply, that I was happy.

***

I apply a generous amount of Vaseline to the dry, chapped palms of my twin son.
When I take the remaining Vaseline on my finger and gently bring it toward his face,
he says "Oooo" and waits with his lips pursed into a little pout.
Your face is so unguarded, not even knowing what a kissy face is yet.
When I pull my finger back and bring my face close, he kisses my cheek with that same unguarded expression.
"Mommy, I love you!"
To him, who adds words like that, I gently apply the Vaseline again, imbuing it with my thanks.

My twin son's hands are always chapped from his atopic dermatitis.
I hold his hand as he gets up from the futon saying, "It's itchy,"
and telling him, "Let's just stay like this," I lie down with him once more.

Even so, sometimes it just doesn't work.
I apply medicine I've received or bought to his body as he says, "It's so itchy, I can't stand it."
I take his hand, which gets itchy as his body temperature rises when he falls asleep, and try blowing on it to offer some small comfort.
"Wow, that's cool~"
Thinking dutifully that he has to go to sleep early or the ogres will come at night, he squeezes his eyes shut tight.
Then, he turns toward me and whispers,
"Mommy, I love you."

You're definitely going to grow up to be a good man.

With that thought, I pull him close and drift back into a deep sleep.

***

"Mommy. Look, look----"

When I turn around after being told that, it's usually my older twin son doing something silly.
This day, he used his sister's ring case as a nose and said,
"Oink----"

You're restless, and you walk around as soon as you get to nursery school, don't you?
You always laugh in a high-pitched voice, and my daughter scolds you, saying, "You're too loud!"
"Twin brother, hey, come play with me----"
You follow your younger brother around so much that you bother him.
Lately, even our third son hits you whenever you make eye contact.
(The tyrant third son probably thinks the older twin is the only one his age. Haha)

But you know, this family wouldn't be fun without you.
And.
I also know that you are kinder than anyone else.

When someone is crying, the first one to rush over and wipe away their tears is your white hand, which looks just like Daddy's.

"I think the third son thinks the older twin is a train----"

Even when you're being used as a toy by the third son like that, your kind hands never strike back.

Older brother and younger brother.
Even when they grow up someday.
Cherish this fate of being born as "twins."
I hope they continue to support each other like this.

***

In those small hands, various pictures are always spreading out.

Anpanmans drawn by my husband, the artist, lined up on their hands.
"With these hands, I'm afraid you're not allowed in the hot springs..." says my husband.

#WhatAreYouTalkingAbout

When they've taken out a pen.
When they're feeling restless and making a huge fuss.
On mornings when they say, "I don't want to go to nursery school."
I draw lots of pictures on their hands before sending them off.

I've been doing this for everyone since my eldest daughter was little.
For my eldest daughter, I'd draw portraits.
For my second daughter, I'd write messages like "I'm rooting for you."
For the twins, I'd draw dinosaurs, trains, and tracks.

For my third son, I draw Anpanman and his favorite things like this.


As the older children have grown, the sisters have started drawing pictures on their little brother's hands, saying, "I'll draw for you."

Through our hands, the family's feelings circulate.
I think that's kind of nice.

That third son of mine is currently embodying a "bundle of greed."
"That!" "This!"
"Over there!" "Over here!"
"Come here!" "Go away!"
He shouts loudly to get his parents, sisters, and brother to do things. Especially his sisters, who find him so adorable that they take care of him diligently.
I'm sure he thinks he's got them right where he wants them.
I know he's smirking while being held by his sister.

However, it is also a fact that by trying so hard to keep up with his older sister and brother, he is growing up to be resilient. Even when he falls and scrapes his knees, he gets right back up and starts running again. He is the youngest in his one-year-old nursery class, but he has the most guts.

Keep it up, my third son.
Go conquer the world!!!

***

Your palms, more delicate than anyone else's.
When you feel overwhelmed with anxiety, you secretly bite your nails.
Even when I'm cutting everyone else's nails, yours hardly ever need it.
I remember saying once, "Mommy would love to cut your nails, my eldest daughter."

"Mommy. I've been trying not to bite my nails lately. So, look, they've grown out, haven't they?"

Yes. Please, let me cut them.
You said that, and the other day, you climbed onto my lap while proudly showing me those white tips that had grown out.
I took your hands, which will always be precious to me, and carefully trimmed your nails.
Even the clippings that fell to the floor felt dear to me.

I'm sure that being the "eldest daughter" has made things very difficult for you.
I've thought that many times. Especially after you stopped being able to go to school, I would sometimes get caught in a loop of thinking about such helpless things.

But you said this to me.
While watching your younger sister and brother running around beside me.

"Having a younger sister and brother seems tough. I'm glad I'm the oldest."

That's what you said.

"Is that so? Isn't it hard? Since I was the youngest, I've always thought I had it pretty easy."

When I said that, you took my hand.

"Because I'm the one who talks to Mommy the most."

And you smiled and gently stroked my hand.

I see.
Even if you feel like something is missing.
You have spent more time living with Mom than anyone else, haven't you?
Well then, that's good.
I'm so glad I gave birth to you first.

No.
You were faster at running than anyone else in your class, weren't you?
You slid right in next to Mom, didn't you?

Your gentle palms are overflowing with potential.
You can dream, you can hold them, and you can create them.

We received so many messages, too.
To those who left comments,
and to those who are watching over us,
thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

She is already running toward her dreams.

***

I only have two hands.
Sometimes, these two hands aren't enough to protect my children completely.
That's why I need your palms.
They protect the children and the family,
and sometimes they stroke my head and hold me tight.

The matching rings we promised each other with.
The matching watches we received for our birthdays.
The matching bracelets we bought for our 10th wedding anniversary.

Every time I look at them, I feel truly at peace.
Oh, I'm so glad. I think, our hearts are connected.
The words we vowed that day while holding hands are still deep in my heart.
I want to continue living the miracle that I have built with you.

***

My rugged palms look just like my father's.
They are bony with thick knuckles, and if you look only at my palms, they are completely masculine.
I used to hate these palms, but now I gaze at them every day with affection.

They can firmly support a child.
They can grip a racket tightly.
They make chunky rings look good.

On my thumb, I wear my father's wedding ring.
With my mother's permission, I have taken over my father's vow.

Someday, I intend to return it to my father, and then to my mother.
But until then.
Feeling like it protects us, I gently pour my thoughts into my thumb.

When I am lost, I gaze at my own palms.

Things that have been passed down.
Things that were vowed to one another.
My palms are where those things come together.

Today, tomorrow, and beyond.
Taking hands, overlapping them, joining them, and connecting them.
I will go on living.

I have participated in the "#Hand" article call by Crystal-ru who always gives me kind, warm words and insights.
As a result of looking at the "hands" of each family member, feelings welled up, and I have written them down just as they came to mind.

Ruru-san, thank you for the wonderful article🍀

This has become my first "#WhatAreYouTalkingAbout" of the year.
Konishi Kinoko-san, sorry for the trouble.
Thank you in advance😊

Following my eldest daughter's drawing, my second daughter is writing something mysterious, truly a "what are you talking about" piece.
I would like to share it somewhere.
When that time comes, please look forward to it✨

#Hand
#WhatAreYouTalkingAbout