It is hard to do when washing dishes.
It is hard to do when making dinner.
It is hard to do when using the bathroom.
It is hard to do when going up the stairs and the person whose hand you are holding still navigates the steps one at a time with a grunt like he’s obese and winded after each climb.
Last night I was in a hurry to make dinner. Best laid plans and all that nonsense. From the time I walked in the gate he was stuck to me. Literally. He was holding onto my leg. Sometimes covered by the bottom of my dress with one hand holding onto the bottom of my underwear, but there nonetheless. The minute I started to get frustrated at trying to rush but being held back by a thigh appendage, I looked down at him. And he peeked from under my dress and smiled and said hi and I melted. And then it wasn’t so cumbersome to cook that way after all.
But then he wanted my hand. His holding on to me wasn’t the same as us holding onto each other. Hmm. Can I really flour this chicken with one hand? Turns out I can. Can I wash this pan? Yup. Can I prepare everyone’s plate one-handed? Please don’t question my one-handed maneuverability.
And he hugs now. And says mmmmm while doing it. With a squeeze. Then he says thank you. Like I’ve given him a gift. Like he’s as happy to get that squeeze as I am. And all the rushing, all the I could go faster if he’d just get off my leg, if he’d just let go of my hand — all that went out the window the minute he grabbed my hand again after dinner.