Press Stop.

She asks me to lift her up so that she can wash her hands in the kitchen sink. Usually I tell her to go to the bathroom sink, giving myself a respite from the kitchen anxieties; a too hot oven, or a stove top flame dangerously close to her big, free, full of combustible hair products hair. This time, however, I remember to sneak another moment. Lifting her up to wash her hands I notice her shoulder blade, a bone that used to announce itself like an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, "I'm hungry!" and now has softened into a comma in the middle of the sentence, "I have had lunch, and later I will have dinner."

I wonder if I will ever tell her the story of how when she first came home I rushed her to the eye doctor. I suspected strabismus, her eye seemed to look at her nose in a suspicious way, but more than that I was worried because her eyes were so sparkly. I was sure she had some sort of eye disease. I had never seen eyes so sparkly. The strabismus turned out to be non-existent and the kind doctor smiled at me and told me yes, my daughter did have really beautiful, sparkly eyes.

As I watch her small hand reach for the soap, the lavender Trader Joe's kind, I think this small hand is already so much bigger. I put her hands in mine and we wash her hands together. I hold her. I pretend it is taking a long time for the stream of water to rinse the soap. I take this time for myself, a small moment just to hold her hands in mine and let the water rush over us.
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