His hands are so little. When I look at him across the room all I see is how big he has gotten. How tall he is. The things he can do.
When he puts his hand in mine as we walk down the street it feels so small. All I think about when I lie next to him at nap time, one of his hands clutching a toy car and the other clutching one of mine, is how little his hands are.
Her voice is so little. When I am with her all I hear is how old she is. How complex her sentences are. How loud her demands for snacks and her cries of excitement are.
On the rare occasion when I talk to her over the phone her voice sounds so young. All I can think about as I listen on my cell phone to the rise and fall of her words is how little her voice is.
They are still so little. Sometimes I forget that.