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Love Your Bumps Because They're What Others Love About You

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On my right hand, between the first and second knuckles, tucked away inside my fingers, sits a tiny bump.

For the first four decades of my life, I had no idea it existed.

Even now, I don't know what it is: beauty mark, mole or some other kind of miniature flaw. It doesn't much matter anyway, as small and insignificant as it is.

But in the last three years, since the birth of our youngest son, the bump has become not just visible but important.

"Can I touch the bump?" he asked, at first, though now I put my hand in his at nighttime without him asking. He pets my hand, lightly, almost meditatively, as he drinks his milk or when he wakes up from a nightmare and needs comforting.

When we hold hands crossing the street, he quickly grabs my right hand before our other son can get there.

 

"It's my favorite hand," he says, "because of the bump."

I've often marveled how that tiny imperfection is his favorite part of me.

Many times, I've looked at that bump and thought of how, when I was a child, I disliked my name.

My first name, Georgia, was odd, in the worst way.

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