As I rummaged through the box filled with pumpkin candles and all things autumn, the New Year pang hit me. That feeling that usually sneaks in after Christmas but before the glitzy ball in NY drops. To make matters worse, I pulled my journal off the bookcase, the one from January 1, 2010. I read aloud my own words of what I was to accomplish over the next 12 months. Some of the things on the list were done, but many were not. I had scribbled my aspirations of writing 500 words each day, blogging three times a week, cooking healthier and reading through the Bible in a year.
My own penned declarations were a haunting reminder of what I hadn’t done.
But I caught a glimpse of my kitchen sink filled with murky water. Long wooden rolling pins peaked through the iridescent bubbles. Caked on blue play doh was beginning to soften again. As I walked closer I could see the plastic rainbow-colored cookie cutters floating to the top. It had been a hit. My 18 month old had squealed with delight as he poked his fingers in the warm homemade concoction. His older brother and I made pizzas and snakes and snowmen while we swapped knock knock jokes.
The box of puzzle pieces was still lying on the kitchen table. No one had the heart to take it apart for three days. It had been an arduous feat putting those six continents together.
It’s been a year of spelling lists and math tests and diaper changes and throwing baseballs and softballs and footballs.
I’ve interviewed a senator, had a few front page articles published and sold two more short stories. But I didn’t blog three days a week. I haven’t come close to writing 500 words a day and speculate I won’t finish reading through the Bible this year.
But for mothers, accomplishments aren’t always measured in a list but in the day-to-day living. It’s measured in the diapers and the discipline and the smelly and the lovely.
And it’s measured in dirty rolling pins in murky water and cackles from older than me knock knock jokes.