My mom would stand by the counter pulling chicken off the bone and cutting it into smaller pieces for later meals. I would stand next to her sneaking some. I watched her hands, always dry and usually cracked. She'd tell me how she had beautiful hands that she got compliments on all the time. I wondered, "What are you talking about? Maybe 20 years ago. I'm the one who has beautiful hands." Nails like a french manicure without nail polish or time maintenance, slender fingers, and my natural olive skin that tans well. One of the few things about my physical body I've always been grateful for and proud of.

Now twelve years later, I stand at the counter pulling chicken apart, preparing to feed my growing family. I can't help but notice my beautiful hands, that are now slimy with chicken juice. They are dry  and cracked with broken nails. And they look exactly like my mom's.

I'm so grateful they do! My mom is an amazing woman who is the daughter of an amazing woman. I want so much to be like both of them. But I often find myself falling so short. So every now and then I look at my hands doing something I've seen my mom do and her mom before her and think to myself, "I'm not so different from them."

Today I pulled out my newborn girl clothes preparing for a new baby next month. As I held one the outfits my mom gave me that I wore when I was tiny, I once again noticed my hands. I couldn't help but feel both the love that both my mom and my grandma have for me.

I may not be exactly like my mom, but I have her hands. And every now and again, they let me know that growing up is a process and someday I'll be more like my mom. Just like my dry, cracked hands (that I still get compliments on).