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