The Space Between (Finger and Palm)

My oldest child is eighteen, while my youngest two, fraternal twins who surprised us, are eight. There are two more nestled in between these bookends which brings a total of ten hands that have held the space between my fingers and palm for nearly two decades.

  I don’t remember not wanting children, but I do remember thinking two would be enough. The thought emerged while holding their hands. We were walking home from the park around the corner. I firmly grasped the fingers of one child while we stepped over the cracks of the broken sidewalk; my husband, slightly ahead, held the palm of the other. “This is good,” I thought, “we each have one hand to hold.” 

The thought carried me all the way to the morning I woke up with the dream of my third child burning in my chest. “I want to have another baby,” I said. But I could have said, “I want another hand to hold.” Thus, I’ve been holding a hand against my palm for nearly half of my life. Into the grocery store (“Yes, you can pick a treat”). Across the parking lot (“We never run; there are too many cars”). In the church sanctuary (“Stay close to me if you feel shy”). Through the neighborhood (“Look at the beautiful blue sky”). In the doctor’s office (“I’m sorry you don’t feel well”). Even when my oldest ones have begun to outgrow the need, there has always been someone young enough to need the touch of my hand.

  Currently, my heart is stretched across two states and multiple interests. My oldest daughter, the one who joyfully birthed me into motherhood, is thriving at her university. The touch she offers me comes by way of her frequent texts. My oldest son, taller than me now, expresses his need for me every day by his ritual asking, “What was the best part of your day? What was the worst?” My middle girl, in eighth grade, still needs my hugs. My classroom is in her middle-school hallway, and she will, occasionally, sneak in for a quick embrace. The space between my fingers and palm is now reserved for my youngest two: the only ones left needing the continual squeeze, the silent tethering of my heart to theirs. 

On Wednesday, with the big three off on their adventures of life, and Harper home sick with dad, I went to pick Hudson up from his classroom while his classmates prepared for carline. I turned the corner of his hallway and immediately spotted his tousled recess-blown curls. My smile, stretched across my face, matched the swelling of my heart upon seeing my third-grade wonder of a boy. I walked towards him and said goodbye to his teacher while reaching for his hand. I clutched the air. His scrunched-up nose spoke louder than words as his third-grade buddies stood by emptying their lockers.
I tried again further down the hall, away from their eyes, and still my fingers found space. “You don’t want to hold my hand?” I gently asked him. Again, the answer came in a slight scrunch of his nose. 

Later that night, my husband put the twins to bed while I was running errands, alone. I got home and began to put the milk and eggs away in the fridge when I heard him calling— crying—“Mommy!” 

“You’d better go to him. He’s been having a rough time and calling for you since I got him in bed,” my husband said. 

Sobbing, he fell into my outstretched arms. A mother’s instinct told me why. “It’s ok, Hudson,” I reassured him, “Mommy is not mad at you. You don’t have to hold my hand if you don’t want to.” His eight-year-old body relaxed into me at the reassurance. “I will love you forever,” I consoled him. He held me tight around the neck for several seconds, assuring me of his affection. I kissed his freshly washed hair and breathed every bit in of my last child, the younger twin by a whole seven minutes.

I recalled the first time I held him to my chest. His bloody frame was a shock to me and caused me to exclaim; I had never seen a baby who had to pass through after another had already made her way. The nurses reassured me he was okay; birth is simply a messy job. Birthing two—even messier. His body temperature was low, and the doctor instructed me to hold him skin to skin as much as I could to help raise it. That was how we began: my husband held his sister, while I held Hudson, his flesh to my own. I recognized, on that night, his need for me to regulate him again. 

The following night, his twin sister still sick, I drove back to school for the groundbreaking ceremony of our new school gym with him alone, a rarity for this mother of five. Instinctively, and born from decades of routine, I reached for him as we exited the van. He saw his buddy from across the parking lot. He didn’t scrunch up his nose as he did in the locker-lined hallway, but he did pull away. I remembered, and softly offered, “It’s okay, you don’t have to hold my hand.” He gave me a quick smile and, relieved, ran ahead to catch up with friends.
I walked in behind them, tightly pressing my fingers to the flesh of my palm while swallowing to push back the tears. Silently, I whispered thanks for the two decades spent where I did not know the empty space between (fingers and palm).

Nikki Hurt is a pastor’s wife, a mother of five, and an English teacher who lives and writes in northern Indiana. She is currently pitching her first picture book to publishers while also working on her masters in English at EIU. She hopes to one day teach creative writing at the collegiate level while also publishing work that is good, true, and beautiful. You can find her on Instagram at @author_nikki.hurt or on the web at Nikkihurt.com.