The Hand Mold

A week after Christmas, our home had resumed a level of near normalcy we felt comfortable with.  Presents had mostly found their way into closets and toy bins.  But one item remained on the counter, unopened, constantly attracting the attention of our four-year-old.  We had said enough “laters.” She was clearly onto us.  Knowing we had little to no intention of opening it anytime soon, she pleaded that we open it immediately.

Removal of the packaging attracted our two-year-old daughter, who pulled up a chair so she could partake in the action.  My husband, occupying the tiny space between both chairs, very wisely intercepted a small but dangerous amount of glitter, and threw the contraband straight into the garbage.  With a bit of warm water, they prepared the hand-molding, memory-making kit.  

They poked, then kneaded, then stretched the dough-like substance.  Excitedly, the girls stretched out their fingers as their dad worked to flatten it, stretching the dough to accommodate three hands, on a dough that was meant for one.

It was meant for our youngest to commemorate just how tiny she was on her first Christmas.  Just two weeks old now, I held her as I comfortably sat on a bar stool on the other side of the counter.  I observed my husband using all sorts of patience to complete the task, kindly accepting help from the very persistent hands begging to take part.  

When he deemed it large enough, he took our four-year-olds hand and pressed it into the white material, carefully pressing each finger to make a deep enough indent.  Our two-year-old spread out her fingers as wide as she could, her hand overtook the remaining space.  It took several attempts to position her hand appropriately, only to find she had blue marker all over her hand, that was now a part of the commemorative hand mold.  Now it was time for our youngest daughter, the one it was intended for.  Her hand barely fit in the tiny remaining space, he struggled to unclench her fist, jostling her around, while he pressed her hand gently but hard enough to make an impression. Both older sisters crowded in even closer.  

And then she spat up.  A big one.  All over the whole project.  Our four-year-old was heart broken, our two-year-old cried loudly.    

It was salvageable, just like most of these moments that go awry.  After he wiped it clean, he etched in their names and the year with a fork.  He laid it flat to dry, still somehow it curled.  Maybe it needed the glitter, maybe it needed to not be spat up on or maybe it didn’t like being washed. 

This curled, stained, spat up on commemorative hand mold, perfectly represents our imperfect family.  Normally this happens when we attempt “nice” family photos, someone is doing something ridiculous, isn’t looking or is facing completely backwards.  I love those photos, always laughing at how accurately the camera is able to capture all of our personalities or our particular moods that day.  Like most of our attempts at anything we do as parents, this didn’t go as we had envisioned and all we could do was laugh and carry on.  

And now this beautifully tiring season in our lives is solidified in a weird piece of foam that hangs on our four-year-olds bed.  

It’s perfect.