“The first time I heard it, I wanted to crawl out of my skin. An older man—holding open the door for me—loudly proclaimed, ‘You got your hands full—don’t ya?’
I looked around embarrassed, hoping no one else heard him and thought the same. I looked down at my two hands, both clutching tightly to infant car seats. My hands were full—technically—but I felt like I had things under control. My twins were only two weeks old, and this was the first of thousands of times I would be embarrassed—well pissed off—at such comments.
Adding more children to the mix continued to up the comments. At least once a week, strangers would boldly ask questions that felt more like put-downs. Many times, I would give a fake smile and walk away. Sometimes I would reply, ‘Yup.’ But I never did say what I really wanted to. I never told these strangers that every single one of my kids was planned, or about the miscarriages I had. I never shared that their judgmental comment made me feel like they thought I was incapable and incompetent.
My husband’s death didn’t stop strangers from sharing their thoughts about me being in over my head. Many outings ended in tears because of the blatant honesty of others. Only now their comments—about my hands being full—served as a reminder of my own insecurities in my abilities to parent alone.
Soon, as the kids got a little older, people stopped telling me that my hands were full—not because I looked more put together—but because with so many kids the same age, we started looking like a day care. Those comments just made me laugh, so I had forgotten about the painful comments of the past.
Then one day I took all my kids out to run errands. We had a wonderful day, enjoying the time together. We were about to walk out of a store when I heard it—those words from long ago. An older gentleman—holding the door for me—proclaimed, ‘Wow lady—you sure have your hands full.’
My blood started to boil, and I looked into his eyes. This was it—I was going to let him have it. All those years of pretending people’s comments didn’t hurt me—all those moments when I just walked away—were going to come to an end.
I said, ‘You know sir… I…’ I looked at the five little children that trailed behind me, each of them grinning from ear to ear. For a second, time stood still. My mind flashed over the last few years. A funeral, a murder trial, writing books, speaking, parenting, laundry, making meals, volunteering in their classes, birthday parties, raising these amazing humans… my hands were full. He saw through me—and he was right. I had a lot on my plate, and I had been in way over my head.
I said with a smile, ‘I do have my hands full, but I am the luckiest girl in the whole world. My hands are so full—and so is my heart.’
He looked at me with a warm glow, ‘We never could have kids, so it always amazes me to see all you parents with your hands full of so many blessings.’
It had never crossed my mind that anyone had told me my hands were full—of blessings. But they are! My life has been full of a lot of things—but the greatest are my six little ones that have made my hands so full. There is nothing I could have filled these hands of mine with that would have brought me so much joy.
All of us parents have our hands full. Every day is a lot of work—but in between those spilled bowls of milk and the fingerprints all over the windows are the greatest blessings we will ever receive. Our worlds are full of people who need us, but we can’t let a moment go by that we forget the ones who need us most. For the ones who fill our hands—will also fill our hearts.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Ashlee (Birk) Boyson of Utah. You can follow her journey on Instagram, Facebook and her website. Do you have a similar experience? We’d like to hear your important journey. Submit your own story here, and be sure to subscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories.
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