A baby’s hands are the portal to complete utopia. They are so pale, so incredibly soft, and so busily charted with chubby creases and barely-there finger prints. To think of all that those hands will touch, discover and create... it’s both exciting and humbling. I can’t decide whose hands he has, yet. Both his parents are tangible people who enjoy seeing grand results from a little sweat, blood and marital stress. We were quite proud this summer when the “deck project” didn’t turn out to be the “divorce project”.
It’s difficult to maintain the feel of our connection through this. We both know it’s still present, there’s just no question. But this involuntary living as suddenly single while we rotate shifts is putting some kind of block on tapping into that fantastic feeling. It’s almost as though without the daily emotional and physical reinforcement, the inner line of electricity buzzing between us is losing definition, getting a little fuzzy. It became like breathing to us, this back & forth flow and I know we’ll not take it for granted again.
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