I have hands.
Such a statement may seem unremarkable to those of you who also have hands – but my hands are different. My hands are magic.
I first discovered their magical properties when Lauren was struggling with constipation. “Can I hold your hands” she would say; as the pressure built up ahead of the on rush of poo. It worked. She went.
My hands were then called in to action, many times over, as my poor daughter despaired with each visit to the pan. The magic hands would spring in to action – a delicate grip would ease the situation. In the end I just made sure I was always there for her. If only she knew the trick was to drink caffeine or bottle conditioned beer – though she might be too young for both just now.
And then, without warning – my hands were no longer needed. She started to go, without pain or effort, all by herself.
My magic hands went back to being, well, just mild mannered, office worker hands.
That was until Amy fell pregnant.
Then, like Excalibur rising from the lake – the magical properties returned.
“Come feel the baby move” Amy would say. I would place my hands upon the ever growing bump – at the spot a foot or hand had been digging, punching or kicking for all its worth – and everything would settle. The baby would stop. It was as if they knew. Daddy was there. Everything would be OK. It was dare I say it, magical.
This happens most nights now. There are fathers out there who will instantly feel a kick or a punch. Their heart will leap, their head will spin. Me? I get serenity. It is the serenity born out of the magical bond between hand and peace – as if my hands have been charged with properties; not of this world.
My hands don’t really look any different to yours. They may be slightly softer than they should be for man hands – but then, I put that down to the magic. These are supercharged hands. Hands that, if tested – could do anything. Except, shoot lightning bolts.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
Image: My left hand. Touch the screen. See if the magic of my hand helps you through the day.