It's really cold, small pen practice

In the world of hands, there are industrious hands, lazy hands, rich hands and dexterous hands. However, I wrote about my mother's hardworking hands. Her hands are not that big. Long-term labor has made the cocoon skin climb on her fingers, and a layer of light black skin has grown on the back of her hand.

When the cock crows three times, mother's hands have already started to work: busy making breakfast. Near noon, her hands began to work again: busy cooking lunch. In the afternoon, her hands began to work again: busy cooking dinner. At night, when the moon is high, my mother's hands are working again: busy washing clothes. In short, my mother's hands have been working.

Mother's hands are hardworking and full of maternal love. I remember a cold winter afternoon. I am doing my homework and my mother is doing needlework.

It was late at night, and the weather became colder. My hands are shaking, I dare not write, for fear that I can't do my homework well. At this time, my mother came up to me and said with concern, "Is it cold?" I gently clamped my hand in hers. Suddenly, I felt extremely warm. With her encouragement, I finally finished my homework seriously.

I remember another morning in the middle of winter, and it was very cold. In order to keep out the cold, my friends and I went skating by the river. I accidentally fell into the lime pit. I tried to lift my feet, but my boots were stuffed with lime. "I can't wear it." I resolutely took off my boots and prepared to let my mother wash them for me. Another thought: My mother will criticize me. Finally, I came up with a way to kill two birds with one stone. I hid my boots under the door until it was warm. The weather was a little warmer the next day, so I went to wash it.

Leather boots. But there are no traces of boots under the door. I was so anxious that I almost cried. After a while, I calmed down and went to look elsewhere. No sooner had I found the back door than I heard the familiar sound of "wooshing, wooshing, wooshing". Isn't that the sound of mom's hands working? I followed the sound. In the yard, I found my mother who was washing my boots. Her hand was red with cold and cracked several times. Although it was very cold, there were still a few glittering and translucent beads of sweat slipping from my mother's cheek. I walked up to her, grabbed the brush for brushing my boots and said, "Mom, I'll wash it." Mother said with concern, "Zhen Zhen, I'll wash it." I never promised, but she has taken her boots and brushes. Finally, mother washed it. After washing, she carefully dried her boots. Tears blurred my eyes when I put them back on.

Ah! I want to praise, praise my mother's hand, and praise you-