Tiny Handprints & the Moments I Don’t Want to Forget

This Mother’s Day is hitting me in all the feels.
There’s something about these little hands that is stopping me in my tracks.

Maybe it’s because I know they won’t stay little forever.

Right now, my kitchen table is covered in construction paper, uncapped markers, and enough glue to permanently seal half the house shut.
There are tiny fingerprints on the chairs, scraps of paper on the floor, and at least one child asking for a snack while I’m trying to help another paint their hands for the perfect handprint oven mit.

And in the middle of all of it, I catch myself thinking:

I hope I never forget this version of motherhood.

Not the polished version.
Not the quiet version.
This one.

The loud, messy, beautiful one filled with tiny hands reaching for mine.
To, somehow, move myself beyond the stress that is the mess, to enjoy this moment for what it is - us time.

This week, we spent afternoons making Mother’s Day crafts to send to the grandmas.

Simple things. Handprints. Scribbled names. Crooked hearts. The kind of crafts that I’ll find the aftermath of in the corners of my kitchen, marked on my dining room chairs and stuck to the bottom of my table for the next few weeks.

And while the kids were busy creating, I found myself staring at those little painted hands.

Hands that still reach up to be carried.
Hands that still slip into mine without hesitation.
Hands that still believe I can fix anything with a hug and a snack.

It hit me all at once how fleeting this season really is.

One day, these handprints won’t fit on a single sheet of paper.

One day, they won’t need my help pressing their tiny palms into paint or spelling their names at the bottom of a card.

One day, Mother’s Day crafts might turn into quick phone calls and text messages sent between busy schedules.

And while I know there’s beauty in every season ahead, I also know I’ll miss this one deeply.

The chaos.
The stress.
The way they proudly hold up something wildly imperfect like it belongs in a museum.

As military families, we spend a lot of time measuring distance.

Miles from grandparents.
Months through deployments.
Countless moments lived far away from the people we love most.

But this afternoon reminded me that love has never really depended on proximity.

It shows up in tiny painted hands.
In glue-covered kitchen tables.
In care packages packed with more heart than perfection.

And somewhere, a grandma is about to open a box filled with crooked little crafts and tiny handprints… and see exactly what I see every day:

That these years are precious.

Motherhood has a way of making ordinary moments feel sacred when you realize they won’t last forever.

The tiny voices asking for help.
The concentration on their faces while they create.
The way they still climb into my lap while I’m trying to clean up the mess.

I used to think the goal was preserving the crafts.

Now I think it’s preserving the feeling.

The awe of getting to witness them grow.
The gratitude of being their mom in this season.
The privilege of holding these small moments while they’re still small enough to hold.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m thankful for the mess.

For the fingerprints on my table.
For the paint on their little palms.
For the chance to pause long enough to notice just how beautiful this ordinary afternoon really was.

Because one day, these tiny handprints will be bigger than mine.

And I already know I’ll miss them.