Take a look at this picture from late last week. This is in the early evening on a weekday at the end of a long and grueling week. Amy has spent the entire day taking care of Asher, tending to house chores, and mixing in a not insignificant amount of work tasks. She is holding court with her mom by phone on something medically related. She has two laptops in front of her, one with work charts she's been creating/reviewing/editing for hours and one with a mental health documentary she is watching. Off screen, at the other end of the table, are three loads of laundry, neatly folded and waiting for all of us to put away our stuff. Behind her is the kitchen, which she has cleaned from top to bottom and which is now brimming with food she's spent all day cooking. Oh, and she's fed Asher two bottles and is rocking him to sleep for the night.
What I'm trying to say is that, many many years ago, I fell in love with, dated, and married someone who I thought was smoking hot, incredibly kind, really fun, hilariously funny, deeply godly, and socially aware. Somehow, she is still all that and a superhero. How lucky am I?