Yesterday, as I walked my little one to school I realized that this was the best time of my day. That as a mom, this was the time of the day I was the most content, relaxed and joyful.
Walking to and from school is a ritual; so far rain or shine, we walk. We will see what happens when winter whips up. But still, I suspect we will be out there. Each morning we leave the house and before we've crossed the front yard, I am reaching for my daughter's hand. And thankfully she obliges me, and in turn holds mine. Nothing beats that feeling of acceptance and love.
As we make our way, we sing, dance, twirl, skip, laugh. I use our close proximity to get in a good tickle and she playfully darts away, only to comeback, risking more tickling, when I hold out my hand.
Yesterday's hand holding also reminded me of the last time we saw my father-in-law. As I have blogged before, that weekend prior to his passing, when we all (36 in a little house) gathered at his side, remains the most memorable time of my life. That weekend, we all at some point or another held Pepere's hand. Grown sons holding the father; daughters, grandchildren waiting for the chance. And how lucky and blessed I was to be able to photograph those moments.
I'll never forget his final words to me: "Ptcakes, I never thought I could love an Italian."
And I replied, "It's worse Pepere, I'm Sicilian."
Don't forget to hold someone's hand.