There is sweetness.
The small sticky hand that holds mine across the parking lot.
The squeaky voice proclaiming amazing grace from the back seat.
The thrill of a worm on the sidewalk after the rain.
I am capable.

There is bitterness.
The earsplitting scream of a tantrum in a public bathroom.
The edge to my voice as I correct for the eight millionth time.
The sinking feeling of another promised story time lost to insignificant busyness.
I am failing.

There is sweetness.
The impossibly chubby thighs and Volkswagen bug feet slapping the changing table pad.
The pause in nursing. Our eyes meet. A huge, gummy grin.
The tiny hand clinging to my arm as he watches the world go by from my hip.
I am loved.

There is bitterness.
The long nights of indeterminable ailment, crying and shushing to the wee hours.
The innumerable tasks, ideas, goals that slip through striving fingers reaching for all.
The illusion of control and the truth of my powerlessness.
I am insufficient.

There is sweetness.
The bedtime march to Father Abraham in the glow of the salt lamp.
The spluttering infant babble, rich in meaning but incomprehensible in content.
The exuberant thrill of "DADDY'S HOME!!"
The new expression, new sound, new sprouts of growth and fleeting infant days.
The impossibly mature musings from a three-year-old frame.
The triumphant roll from back to tummy.
The timely reminder of the beauty of a sunset, the delight of a butterfly.

The unexpected hug, the declaration of love, the reminder.
I am enough.

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