Parenthood: Week 363 – Washing Hands

My mom was always a stickler for washing hands.

Every single time I came inside, my mother would make us wash our hands. She firmly believed that this was the an important routine to keep us healthy. At time it seemed overboard. We would be outside playing for only a short period of time and as soon as I’d come, I’d have to wash my hands. Going to the store, where it didn’t seem that dirty, back home the first thing we’d have to do is wash our hands. Sometimes in the middle of the day, when we were home, and hadn’t even left the house, she would make us stop playing and have us wash our hands.

My mom was not unreasonable.  There’s nothing wrong with my mom’s handwashing practice but when I was a child it seemed excessive.

There was a time when I was young child when I looked forward to washing my hands.

I’m not sure what age this was, but there was a time I remember when I couldn’t quite wash my hands well independently. Probably around age four or five. When we would come back home from somewhere, my mother would walk me into the house from the garage entrance which we most commonly used. She would grab this stool/step ladder combination, and help me climb up so I could reach the kitchen sink.

My mom would stand behind me and reach over to turn on the kitchen faucet handle which was just out of my reach. She would swing the neck of the faucet over to wet my hands. Then she would pump some soap out of the dispenser into her hands and bring her hands to mine. Carefully and gently she washed my hands as she washed her own. I’ll never forget the feeling of her hands going over each of my fingers, and then her rubbing each one of my hands, one at a time between her two hands.

There are moments when I feel my mom’s presence. Tonight at dinner, eating a bowl of curry, a dish that my mom taught me how to cook, I thanked her in my mind. When I’m teaching and I feel a quiet patience come over me when a student does something frustrating, I know that this comes from my mother. And when I wash my children’s hands, I'm reminded that I am my mother’s son.

Ollie doesn’t really need my help to wash his hands anymore but sometimes I will help.   He doesn’t  resist my help. Like me, he probably likes the contact, the feeling and the connection. Ethan needs help washing his hands, and while at times he resists, once we get washing, and I start singing the ABC song, he giggles, and smiles delighted in the bubbles and the splashes he can make as we wash together.

In the past week, I have had moments of fear, anger, and frustration.  However, when I'm washing Ethan's hands all of that leave me.  I feel positive, and powerful knowing that I doing my job as father and caring for son.  And I feel my mom, even though she lives across the country, close to me knowing that her love for me is being passed on through me, through my hands, to my son.