my blog post about ravioli-making. I left the flour on my nightstand, and Lincoln found it shortly after his nap:
But, as I looked at these two little hand prints on my fridge today, I was reminded of a poem we read in my creative writing class over a year ago. The poem was about this woman who had cleaned and scrubbed and disinfected the brushes and the sheets of her daughter who had lice. You discover by the end of the poem that her daughter had passed away in some sort of tragic accident shortly after this disinfecting had taken place. And now, there was no scent, no hint that her daughter had ever been there. None of her hairs on the brush, no bed sheets with her smell, or the little bugs that had been a nuisance to her just previous to her untimely death. There was nothing left of her daughter there at all.
I don't share this story to be depressing! I share it, because the hand prints on my sliding glass door, and the food crumbs under Lincoln's high chair, and the flour he spills on my carpet, and the hand prints on my fridge overwhelm me at times. But today, they were just sweet. Just innocent hands that tell me I have someone to love in my life. A little someone with a lot of energy and a big smile, and little busy hands.
Yeah. I think I'll leave these ones here for a while longer.