These hands are precious little hands.

Sometimes I wonder what they’ll be used to do—throw a basketball into a hoop, hold open a book (to read, not chew on), stir a pot of simmering soup.  I pray they won’t be used to hurt, to steal, or even to slam a door in anger.

Precious, precious hands.

Already, they’ve unfurled from fists and our little boy has started to use them to explore his world.  He reaches for toys, pulls them to his mouth, and chomp, chomp, chomps. He grasps the pacifier when it’s in his mouth and pulls it out (he hasn’t figured out how to get it back in the same way again yet, but one thing at a time).  He traces the outlines of my face as I look into my little guy’s eyes, watching as he takes in the angles of my cheeks, the curve of my chin.

It’s all very sweet, all very cute.  Until he starts to pinch.  Boy, can that Peanut pinch.  Hard.  On my arms.  And my neck.

All of a sudden, these precious little hands are starting to look like menacing crab pincers to me. I try to use my sweetest voice to say, “Hey Jacob, that’s really painful and I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” but he doesn’t seem to be getting the message.

Ah, well.  Precious little pincers. Precious, precious little pincers.