On Holding Hands

With all three of my daughters, the first time we held hands was within moments of their birth:
Daddy offering an index finger to a skinny, naked, newly-formed person; daughter instinctively grabbing on for dear life (and it's not often those words "grabbing on for dear life" are said and literally meant); and Daddy, again, wrapping the rest of his hand around her tiny, perfect fist.

If there's a first imprinting moment between father and child, it's got to be that one.

Then there's the learning-to-walk phase too soon later. Again, holding on for dear life, the fledgling walker grasps Daddy's hand and wobbles and stumbles and teeters sideways, then forwards, before Daddy's other hand swoops in to restore order. And then, too soon later, one hand is enough. And then no hands (a celebratory moment of independence that also brings an overwhelming melancholy), and my daughter no longer needs my hand to make her way in the world.

But she really does. And we hold hands to cross the street. And when it's dark and scary. And when it's crowded. And when it's cold. And when we just want to because it's comforting and safe. For both of us.

And then, I remember with each daughter, a moment where it's more exciting (for her) to only hold hands when it's a must. I reach for a hand, it comes, and then it's gone again because it can be. Like getting jilted, but not like that at all. Just the new normal.

And then, a golden era of holding hands again because she is still young enough to be seen doing that and old enough to relish the bond and choose it over the available freedom.

I'm there now with my youngest. We're walking anywhere, it's safe, it's bright, and I subtly offer my hand with a sweeping gesture (that could easily be pulled back if rejected, without betraying that anything had happened) and there it is: Her hand given freely and happily without any good reason but the closeness it brings.

What's nice about having been here before is that I can savour the few years of this that I have before the onset of pre-teen and teens, and the mortification of being caught holding Daddy's hand (or later, being seen with him at all) when friends are around.

When that happens, I'll be crushed again but I'll know that it's just a thing replaced by sitting close on the couch watching a show, or sad and lonely phone calls in the night when she just needs to hear Daddy's voice, or working in the same room just to be in the same room, or hugs when we see each other and leave each other. I'll take what I can get.

But it will never be easy to watch any of the three hold someone else's hand. And I won't be able to get a word out, I'm sure, if and when the day comes that someone else is taking their hand in marriage, and I've been asked to say something uplifting and joyful despite a breaking heart.

Still...always there...through each daughter and each phase, is and will be my wife's hand. We joined hands in marriage, we had these three daughters together, we watched them grow, and we've had to say our (temporary) goodbyes to the girls over and over again.

All of which leads me to one simple thought: There is no greater blessing than to have someone's hand you can hold onto for dear life.