Oh those tiny hands. So beautiful and  precious. When each of my boys were born I remember looking at those tiny, tiny hands in absolute amazement. I could sit and stare at their little hands and feet all day…just kiss them over and over.

Now at age two, those precious little hands have turned into blood drawing little monsters. Finnegan’s newest thing is digging those little claws into flesh when playing or when angry. My oldest son has scratches on his nose, his arms, his cheeks. His teachers must think we have cats. My hands and forearms are all marked up from pulling him out of whatever mess he’s gotten himself in to. I love him dearly but those monstrous little hands need to stop. The little squeal of laughter that follows my scream of pain…that needs to stop too. His marvelous discovery that his little hands can make all the “big” people in his life stop in their tracks…a power too great. I trim and file those little nails but they still do damage. Let’s hope this phase passes very quickly before I put little band-aids on every little finger.