For the last four months my twins have schlepped to dance practice twice a week, toting leotards, ballet shoes, tights, and yoga pants. One afternoon last week a series of spills, abbreviated nights, and wardrobe malfunctions rendered them both weepy just as they needed to arrive at a dress rehearsal. They flung themselves in the car and I cautiously delivered them, uncertain how they would fare in two hours of strenuous effort. 

When they opened the front door just before supper both daughters were laughing. They were full of stories of last minute changes, and near misses as the directors fine tuned the program.

"I was worried you would have cried your way through rehearsal," I smiled in relief. 

"Oh, no, dancing makes me happy," Hope assured me. 

I get it. You are tired of working, so you work harder.

Having a front row seat to observe these girls as they step into life is holy ground. The remembrance that they are the fruit of my love for John and his for me astounds me. How is it that I am granted the miracle that is motherhood? Not once but many times?  

Marriage is in itself marvelous. Two people, rough around the edges, begin to soften with constant rubbing against each other. But to be gifted with children... no words have yet been penned to encompass it.