Warning: True Southern Belles should avert your eyes. Things could get ugly up in here.
I have ugly hands. All you hand models out there? God love ya. I could never be a hand model. I used to think I had normal hands. Pretty hands, even.
Now? I have no idea what happened. My hands are oddly shaped, with square and chubby palms. They’re giant man-hands. For some reason, no matter how hard I scrub, the knuckle skin looks like I haven’t washed it since last year. I promise you, I’ve scrubbed them dozens of times today alone with industrial soap that has little pieces of who knows what in it, specifically designed to make your hands clean. Some days I remember nail polish. The other 364 days of the year? Just waitin’ for the last of it to chip off before I go for the annual paint job.
((In fairness, I do love the new gel nails. I’ve done them before, but that was when “town” was five minutes away not 35, and when heading to town was a normal every day event, not a scheduled weekly adventure that the entire family needs to go on. Translation: the other family members do not want to sit in the car for an hour during “Town Tuesday” while mama gets her tips done.))
Last weekend, LH and I decided that while the boys were away at Cub Scouts, we would snuggle on the couch, watch The Parent Trap (circa 1961), and paint designs on our nails. Ladybugs for her. Flowers for me.
They were pretty!
Then I washed two loads of dishes, cooked five meals and a cake, and washed six loads of laundry.
This week was the last week of 3rd grade AWANA. I had volunteered to help the first week, and ended up being their leader/teacher. Sweet. Eight to ten girls and boys each Wednesday night, full of energy, excitement, and countless rounds of, “Mrs. Karen, can I go to the bathroom?”
There were themed nights every now and then. Glow in the dark night. Crazy hair night. Duct tape night. Shades night.
Last night was THE last night for the year. It has been a great, whirlwind year. As we all piled back in the sanctuary at the end of the night, LH pulls at my hand and starts writing. I’ll admit, I totally thought an “I Love You” was in process.
Nope. It was I ♡ God.
And right after him? A sweaty LM comes running up and writes this on the palm of the same hand.
You were a great teacher.
They don’t see the chipped nail polish. Or the wrinkles. Or those stupid knuckles. They see the things that are more important. Hands that drove them to AWANA each week, opened their handbooks each week, held hands on the way to church supper, flipped through the Bible to look up verses, and rubbed their shoulders during sanctuary time. They see the things that were way more important than how my polish job is holding up.
So if you see a mama this Mother’s Day without perfect nails and toes, with messy hair, or a wrinkly, dirty shirt on Sunday morning, look past those things and see her the way her children do.
Beautiful, paint chips and all.
Cheering for you,
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