"Which one is my pointer again, Mom?"
She can't quite figure out the names of her fingers just yet - thumb, pointer, middle, ring and pinkie, I explain over and over.
Oh, what those digits will do. What they have already done. They've been scraped, held close, removed forcefully and washed hundred of times. They go up, they go down, the get stuck, they pull free. They sign words, they wiggle, they go up noses (usually their own, but not always).
Mya's purple hand print adorns my new oven mitt and Lucas' purple hand print takes up the entire inside panel of the Mother's Day card he delivered to me at 4:23 am this morning.
Both kids show up from different schools with different teachers with purple painted hand prints. Permanent records of their size, their individuality and their love.
"Thank you for being such a nice Mom," Mya said as she waited expectantly for me to open my gift.
"You know why I got you those presents? Because I love you," Lucas explained over our cereal feast at 5 am.
In years to come, I will see those little purple paws and always be reminded of those moments. It is as if those purple palms reached out and laid themselves directly on my heart.