Lofty words about parenthood being an icon of God the Father's love for us cut both ways. I fail frequently and deplorably, and in doing so remind myself how I profane this office.
The truth is, the babies' love is often a much better likeness of the Father's than mine. No matter how much I've ignored them, no matter how impatient I've been with them, they still want to be with me. Two minutes after I snap or growl or criticize they're proposing book reading and Memory games, making me "treats" and asking me to cuddle with them on the couch. They forgive me without even thinking about it, without even realizing they're doing it. They love me so much that no offense on my part is worth losing a hug or a puzzle or a song over.
I know they'll grow up and come to their senses and figure out that I don't treat them as well as I should. They'll get mad at me and hold grudges and struggle to forgive as much as I do. But in the meantime, their dogged love is, to understate, humbling.