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Dear daughter:

While you were sleeping … I remembered all the things I forgot during the day:

That you’re a toddler now, your baby chub fast disappearing.

That toilet paper, toys and crumbs are fast swept up,

and so is time.

That days are long,

but years fly by.

That at worst a house unkempt is really a sign of a life well lived.

That when people ask what I’ve been up to,

“Not much, just the girls” is really a valid answer.

That potty training and self sufficiency will come,

and then I’ll miss the diapers … even the stinky ones.

Dear daughter:

While you were sleeping, it hit me:

That you make me more mad, frustrated and helpless than I ever thought I could be,

and more overwhelmingly joyful, humble and grateful than I ever deserve.

That you don’t say things like ‘mezagine’ for long.

And you roll your eyes and say ‘Mom, it’s magazine.’

That I can and will cry when you do natural things like learn to ride your bike.

That not everyone gets the incredible opportunity to hold their baby every day,

and I should do it more.

That you’re strong,

but you still need your mommy.

That you’re big, so big,

and my arms won’t always be able to contain you.

Dear daughters, while you were sleeping, I knew that:

When we’re apart,

a part of me is missing.

That God loves you way, way more than I do.

And that breaks me when I realize he loves me even more incomprehensibly than a mother’s love.

That I am your momma,

and if that’s all I ever am,

that is more than enough.

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