In toddler stage, mothers become experts at talking between interruptions. Rarely looking at each other’s faces, we learn to hold hours long conversations between stair boosts, skinned knees, and the occasional runner.

One morning, my girlfriend and I were sarcastically complaining about our dear husbands while pushing our kids on the swings. My friend said — with a feigned seriousness only motherhood can provide — something I’ll never forget:

“Well, I’m perfect.”

My face swirled to meet hers, and I deadpanned, “I’m perfect too.”

We erupted in laughter.

Laughter over ourselves, our husbands who knew too little, and the wild ride of newborns and toddlers we chose on purpose. By flipping the script on ourselves, we saw our lives as the blessing it was.

Sure, our frustrations were real, but this sarcastic joke exposed the truth: we are not the reasonable one nor the victim.

This phrase changed my life.

To this day, whenever I catch myself building a case against fill-in-the-blank (and certainly against whoever loaded the dishwasher wrong), I say to myself in the most serious tone I can muster: “Well, I’m perfect.”

Even as I write this, I’m laughing out loud. The thought is so ridiculous. Every time I say, "I'm perfect," I'm really reminding myself of the log in my own eye.

I’m not even close to perfect, and that’s good news.

When I stop logging indecencies, I start giving grace to the people around me (and myself). In acknowledging the logs in my eyes, I enjoy the messy, imperfect gifts God gives me daily… including my adorable husband and all his socks.

Emily