The Sweet Blessing of Holding Her Hand

My dear friend Jenni wrote this lovely poignant Mother’s Day essay, and I am delighted to share it with you. She tells about the sweet blessing of holding her mother’s hand. Enjoy reading x

 

Holding Hands~

My earliest childhood memory is of holding my mother’s hands.

They felt soft, warm, safe–it was as if nothing could possibly go wrong when I was holding them.

I loved trying on her rings, spinning them around my fingers, and couldn’t wait to be old enough to wear nail polish like hers: a shimmering pink, usually, or–on special occasions–a deeper rose.

Impossibly glamorous.

My mother’s hands made “the best spaghetti Bolognese in the world” as I called it, a Baked Alaska that’s still the stuff of my pudding fantasies and the same birthday cake I requested every year. A Victoria sponge–filled with strawberry jam and cream and smothered with chocolate frosting and Smarties–my parties were famous for it.

She gift-wrapped like a pro. At Christmas, I’d watch in wonder as she sat at our dining room table, cutting perfectly straight lines and making the neatest tucks.

My mother put the finishing touches to the homemade dolls house that she and my father surprised me with one Christmas morning, decorating it throughout with wallpaper, carpet, and curtains using offcuts from our own home. She even made kitchen counters and miniature white goods out of cardboard.

A Pinterest mama before her time..

Another year, I woke to find that the Elves had dressed my Sindy and Tiny Tears dolls in matching, hand knitted blue dresses.

My mother’s hands steadied mine during my first panic attack, aged around eight when I bolted from a cinema. And the ones that followed.

They sewed name tapes into new school uniforms (and second chances).

The same hands made costumes for my dance class end of year show. My mother’s hands proudly clapped when I spent most of the performance swaying to Winter Wonderland in my red satin skater dress and ear muffs while the more coordinated girls danced around me.

My mother’s hands reached out for my father’s as he faltered through his father of the bride speech on our wedding day, his voice cracking with emotion having been through major heart surgery just months before. They tenderly stroked our firstborn’s forehead–and her little brother’s, years later–in the hospital, after my two C-section births.

I have no conscious memory of my first mother or how it felt when her hands took mine.

But I do know that they held me and pushed me in the big, traditional pram we’re sitting beside in one of the few cherished photos I have of us together in a park.

It makes me smile that she’s wearing a gold charm bracelet, as I, too, can’t resist them (or, increasingly, any gold accessory).

I’ve since learned that my first mother kept a baby diary during our first weeks together, recording my weight and progress. I often wonder if it was she who dressed me in the blue dress with the Peter Pan collar which my mother remembers I was wearing when she and my father brought me home.

From brave and beautiful first mother to forever mama, my beloved mummy, with whom I still have the blessing of holding hands on this earth.

Today, when I take my mother’s hand, it feels as soft as it ever did.

Of course, the skin is now tissue thin and the veins more pronounced after 91 years of life, by God’s grace, running through them.

While age is playing cruel tricks with her memory, she still knows me.

“You’re so kind,” she says. So kind.

“No” I always reply. “Not at all! You’re my mother. I’m your daughter. I love you!”.

She nods, smiles and I can see it in her eyes: she feels safe. Loved. As if nothing could possibly go wrong if she holds onto my hands.

And neither of us wants to let go.

Bio:

Jen Baden Howard is a freelance writer, podcaster and former magazine and newspaper journalist who writes about motherhood, beauty, and lifestyle. She believes in the beauty and power of sharing our stories. Connect with Jen at Forevermamas.com or on Instagram here