I cannot sew, draw, or paint.

I do not have cute labeled baskets for organizing all over my house.

I am not very crafty.

I can’t make and decorate fancy cakes.

I’m not the greatest cook. (Though I’m trying!)

I’m not the best housecleaner.

I am not the most creative mom in the world.

I have never tried to grow plants, although if I did I have a suspicion my thumb might be purple.

I’m not uber-organized or neat.

I’m not great at small talk.

I can’t control my patience when my son has “hi-ya!”ed me for the 15th time.

I never make my bed. (Except when guests are coming over.)

I don’t have an eye for decorating.

The list could go on. I am constantly trying to hold myself to high standards as a mother and wife. I don’t know why. I read organizing blogs and crafting blogs and hang out on etsy and think, “I really wish I could do that. I really wish I could be that mom.”

I am very slowly coming to terms with me. Accepting me. Realizing that even if I can’t and don’t do all that stuff, I’m still a good mom and wife most of the time. And that there are things I can do.

I can build a huge Lego tower.

I can change a Barbie’s clothes 10 times in 2 minutes.

I can make a Play Doh dinosaur.

I can dance to the Backyardigans and Selena Gomez.

I can kiss boo-boos.

I can love my children and spouse.

I can hug and kiss my loved ones.

I can pray.

I can teach my children to light candles at the altar, to eat with their mouth closed, to let others go first.

I can read to my kids.

I can show them how to make cookies, or cupcakes, or bread.

I can laugh even when the made-up joke doesn’t make sense.

As I work toward living my life with more intentionality, I listen to the writers and poets:

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
with your one wild and precious life?” 

– Mary Oliver

“There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to 

impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.”

– Li-Young Lee