I'll Never Be a Hand Model

You know, they used to say that you can tell a lot about a lady by looking at her hands.

Look at these two sorry specimens.

I tried to put them in a ladylike pose, but it doesn't work. My skin looks pretty wrinkly -- ugh. At least my fingernails are clean.

No, what I mean is, take a look at those big honkin' bruises. Impressive, no? Worthy of sympathy? Well, go ahead, if you want to, but it's really not necessary.

For some reason, I have the unfortunate tendency to "pop" blood vessels in my hands during karate class. When I punch one of the pads during a drill, it's not unusual for me to feel a faint pinching pop. Within the next half-hour or so, the site will swell and turn the color of a Concord grape. The beauties you see here were an interesting purple/red last night. Now that they've had nearly 24 hours to dissipate, they're impressive on a completely different level.

Despite this, I really love hitting those targets. And I don't hit like a girl, either. When I land one, I like to feel and hear ka-pow or boom or smack.

Apparently I have "issues" that are soothed when I beat the living crap out of the pads, landing punches and kicks as if the poor things had insulted my momma. I'm always delighted when I land a good one and a little piece of the stuffing poofs out one of the vent holes. "We have stuffage!"

So what do my hands tell you? To some they may say, "Look out, this one's gonna pound you." To me, they say, "See those bruises? You only landed one out of three with your hand in the right position. Tsk. Next time, those bruises had better be on the index- and middle-finger knuckles. Now drop and give me 20."

Well, I have class again tomorrow night, so I'll see what I can do, hands!

A Garlic Press, Spatula, Cookie Sheet … and a Pillow

What's the common element here? No, they’re not part of a new trend to cook while snoozing. Nope. Each was at one time a treasured companion to one of our boys. The cookie sheet even had a name: Dorge (George, for those of us who prefer not to communicate in baby talk).

The pillow is now the current favorite. Buddy is a travel pillow that I bought for #2 son when I enrolled him in preschool. The pillow was nameless back then and has been over the intervening 5 years. It’s only in the past week that it resurfaced, was named, and now has pride of place wherever my son happens to land.

Don’t get the idea that we didn’t provide toys for our boys—not at all. They had fun, educational toys and books and puzzles. So why is it that children sometimes glom on to the oddest things and make them their own? I’m guessing that it comes from the same region of the brain that prompts them to go to “kid work” (i.e., play under the bed covers, sometimes yelling at a lazy worker) and invent imaginary children of their own. For a period of time, I was grandmother to five grandchildren, three of whom were named Joey, Maurice, and Francesca. The first time they appeared, I just sat on the couch, bemused, while my preschool-aged son chased his kids around the house, threatening them with grandma (me). Interestingly, my grandkids' appearance seemed to be prompted by my rare moments of rest. I guess mom in chair = kids (or grandkids) acting up.

These days, #1 son, who is in junior high school, enjoys hanging out in his room, listening to a book on CD and playing with his junk collection. This kid has odd bits of metal that he’s accumulated over the years. They become generals and soldiers, warriors and beasts, and always fight the good fight. Today three of them went to a friends house to be trained in the latest combat techniques. (See? It's not just my kids.)

We’ve given up trying to understand the “why’s” of our boys, because the reasons why they do the things they do don’t really matter. What does matter is the “wow” they get when their imaginations meet the mundane and make magic happen.