For Thanksgiving, I had a week without classes. So, I did some fall cleaning, which included washing the downstairs windows and French doors. Two days later, however, I walked into the living room, glanced at the glass in my door, and gasped at the sight of two handprints marring the recently acquired perfection.
My youngest is thirteen. I should be given more than two days before I have to stop patting myself on the back for my cleaning skills.
“Who did that?” I demanded.
Younger squinted at me from his sprawled position on the sofa. “Did what?”
“Those handprints.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Looks like they’re at about the right height for you, actually.”
“Nah,” he assured me, pushing himself onto his feet so that he could cross to the door. And before I could glean his intent, he slapped his palms smack-dab against the glass. “See. That’s where mine would be.”
Then as the are-you-kidding-me cloud lowered over my face, realization dawned in his eyes. Dipping his chin, he giggled then moved way beyond my reach, clearing my view of the now four handprints splayed across my glass.
I remember when his kindergarten teacher pressed his little handprint into plaster, the tug at my heart as I traced the indention of stubby little fingers already wondering where the time had gone.
Yeah, not the same feeling at all.