Give me your hand

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When Greta was a toddler, I used to reach my hand out to her in the backseat of the car while I was driving. She would reach out with her little paw and we’d hold hands for a few minutes. Usually we did it after she’d been upset or gotten in trouble, like if she had thrown a tantrum when we were leaving the mall or if I had lost my temper with her and snapped at her. In other words, I was feeling like a horrible mother and she was feeling unloved. It was our way of wordlessly connecting or patching something up. It’s our thing.

After a while, she started doing something that was so funny–it was an early flash of her fantastic, advanced sense of humor. When I’d reach back, she’d slip off her shoe and put her little fat foot in my hand.

Now that she’s 7, she still does it and it still makes me smile.

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