I saw it, long ago.
Those hands.
Withered and wrinkled.
I asked her, then, if my veins would look the same as hers when I was her age.
She laughed, apologetically, but I was serious.
I wanted those hands.
And I’m beginning to see them, now.
Ever so slightly.
The pronounced blue protrusions.
The fragile cells in-between.
The soft cover of a life, well-lived.
Piano hands.
Captured by Katie McCracken
A sliver. A break. A crack.
An opening of hope.
A promise of warmth.
The other side, beyond the deep, dark, sadness.
Light.
Camille Vaughan Photography
Foreseeable a mile away.
The awe is understandable.
Four beautiful daughters, so close in age, is bound to attract attention.
The first line, predictable:
“All girls?”
Almost as predictable as one of the second lines:
“Wow. You’ve got your hands full.”
“Just wait until they’re teenagers!”
But the worst, the absolute worst is when they say, in front of our daughters,
“I’m sorry.”
“Were you trying for the boy?”
The look on my 6 year-old’s face: confusion.
The feeling in my heart: pain.
Sadness that she should feel the need to apologize for her gender. Disappointment that this adult is too ignorant to realize children, too, have ears and feelings.
So instead, I strike back.
“We hit the JACKPOT.”
Four sisters. One loving mother. One adoring father. 6 hearts. One family.
Unapologetically. 
New Leaf Parenting 