I want to tell you that you are perfect. Each one of you.

You, my dear busy-boy three years old:

Your scraped chin. And fashion-statement-only band-aids. That sideways cowlick. Like you randomly took a scissors to the front of your hair(you didn’t). The way you chug-chug-chug like a train at the dinner table knocking your pizza off the plate. And your finally coming to terms that your birthday is “done” (when Mommy hasn’t quite yet!). It’s perfect.

And you, my rolling over-and-over nearly eight-month old:

Your brown eyes, chunky thighs. The way you give hugs when I pick you up, so tight I have to unclasp those teeny, pinching nails that need daily trimming (ouch!). How you love to tap-tap-tap-out-a-beat in music class. And on your high chair. How you still don’t sleep through the night… even if I smuggle your restless body into our bed (then I am the restless one). How even in sleep you reach over to touch my face. It’s perfect.

And you. My hard-working, never-complaining husband.

Who never makes it through a movie these days before falling asleep. Who feeds the baby green beans for breakfast. And still asks which diaper insert goes with which cover (and creates some very interesting combinations!). But always has a cup of coffee for me on those “sleep-in” mornings. Who must be the hand behind the dump trucks that show up in the steam on the glass shower wall… It’s perfect.

It’s perfect because this is our life, our family, our loving days. And would I want to be more organized, more on time, less sleepy, less worrying about whether we are doing this parenting thing right?

Maybe. But inside of what seems imperfect are rolled up the daily gifts I am thankful for.