22 hours ago
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A couple of weeks ago, we had some concrete poured on the side of our new house. When we first talked about putting concrete there, I told Dan that I would REALLY love to get the kids hand prints in the concrete. I told him that since this is our "forever house" I wanted to remember how small our kiddos were when we moved in. I wanted to preserve something of their childhood that could never be lost or washed away.
You see, I'm sentimental like that.
He is not.
He said no.
On the day they poured the concrete, we had great fun watching the big truck spinning and the men wearing those awesome boots, walking around in the muck and smoothing it out. They were there for 5 hours and after 4 and a half, I thought I'd give it one more try.
"I suppose it's too late for hand prints..." I said.
"Yeah." Was his short, full answer.
I gave up and put the baby to bed.
As I left the baby's room and sat down at the table to work on a project, Dan came running in from the garage.
"Come on! Hand prints! Let's go!"
As I stared at him in mute amazement, I thought I could see the touch of a grin on his face. When he started rallying the kids and herding them to the driveway, I knew he was serious and I didn't even hesitate as I ran into the baby's room and snatched him from his crib.
By the time I got to the driveway, our oldest daughter was walking back to the house to wash her hand off and he had our second daughter's hand pressed into the soft, wet rock. Jack was next, and then Dan helped me by holding the baby as I pressed his little hand into the cement.
Then, Dan carefully etched the childrens initials above each of their hand prints.
It was done.
A part of our children was frozen in time.
I don't want to wish the time away, but a part of me is secretly excited for the day when my grandchildren discover the prints and lead their parents by the finger to the spot and ask them to put their hand out to see how they've grown.