Wrapped around my daughter’s sippy cup as I clean up after a day of girls running wild and a steadily growing mess I will never gain control over, I can’t help but consider my hands as I carry things too and from the kitchen. I sucked my thumb until I was seven years old and when I finally quit, I transferred this urgent need for a habit to my fingernails. I have picked, bit and destroyed them for 23 years. There was a brief respite when I returned home from a semester in England. I just didn’t need to do that anymore; that is, until next semesters finals when I gave in to the nervous habit that always hits hard when I am under stress.
And yet, I have always tried to honor this part of me, accepting that it is a weakness that I have not yet overcome. When Mark and I married, we did a hand ceremony, clasping hands and acknowledging what our hands would do for each other through the years of our marriage. Recognizing them for the care they would give, the fights they would emphasize, the babies they would cradle. No matter how much I hate the habit, I have to love the hands. No matter how ugly, they are part of me. And they have always kept me solidly on the ground, feet planted in the muddy soil. I’d never try to be who I’m not with these hands dangling at the end of my arms.
Sometimes I try to hide them or avoid catching the nails in a photo; it’s not always easy to stare a failure straight on. But for the most part, I have come to love my hands and see them as a part of me I cannot deny. I am, after all, not so very perfect. And that’s ok with me.
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