Some days the miracles are so tangible. I stare at their faces for a really long time and I can’t believe they’re here, that they’re ours. I look at their lashes and the shape of their noses and I laugh when Shilo says she has the “coughles” (lots of little coughs). And then in the same day I’m so annoyed that tiny bits of rice are all over the rug, that no one is staying seated at the dinner table, and I’m over it when they’re not staying in bed even though they were tucked in two hours ago. The days fly by and the days drag on. I’m caught between trying to do my best, get through the long days, find some patience somewhere, somehow, and at the same time, I’m nostalgic for the very days I’m in. I don’t ever want to miss a thing. I don’t want to miss a moment of who they’re becoming. I don’t ever want to stop taking in the miracles we prayed for. But If I’m annoyed at rice on the rug and ketchup on the white curtains (please gasp dramatically with me), I’m just as frustrated with myself. If I stay there it’s too deep a thought, which leads to guilt and condemnation (which isn’t from God!) for ways I don’t think I measure up as a mom, or think I’m present enough, or ‘words like honey’ sweet enough, etc. So instead of missing any more moments caught up in analyzing how I measure up as a mom/wife/friend/person I look to Jesus and I say, “THANK YOU FOR MEASURING UP WHEN I FALL SHORT.” I need Jesus to help me in so many ways in my life. (That’s an understatement). I need Him to remind me constantly that it’s in His strength that I win, love, soar, find peace, experience joy, raise these girls, and even clean rice off the rug.