People always see my hands. They look down and notice the scratches, the bandaids, the scabs. I always find people asking me about my hands. And when I say that one of my little friends had a tough day, they tell me they could never do what I do.
I love my wounded hands.
They are not perfect. Rough from many hand washes. Uneven from showing a little one it doesn’t hurt to cut your nail. Bruised. Scratched. Paint stained.
I love my wounded hands.
Each and every scratch, scar, bruise, or scrape reminds me of a time of struggle- that became success. Each new lesson, each new food, each schedule change. Each day of cancelled recess and each “that is not choice”. Each potty training session, learning to wash hands. Each loud and rumbling assembly, each ripped page in a book, each computer time is over, and each upset tummy.
I love my wounded hands. Each time I earn a new scar, I know that little one has made a new leap, reached a new height, and broken down a new door.
I love my wounded hands- and I will always do, what I do.
#iTeachSped #WeTeachSped
