About the day she started preschool.
About the party for a boy who can't possibly be seven, but is.
I suppose I should also confess to being a reluctant soccer mom, the kind without a mini-van, but still. I suppose I should share my growing conviction that organized soccer should be in no way encouraged or allowed until such time that the budding player can put on his own blasted shin guards and soccer socks.
I suppose I should tell you that teaching a four and half year old to read is only a good idea if you are heavily medicated.
And I probably should confess that Dani roped me into playing doll house this morning, and the only reason I went along was because of capital G Guilt. I took my phone and coffee and tried to shop for Caed's snow pants and boots while playing the dual roles of the pink pony and the only nice mommy in a kingdom full of very mean dogs. Dani, being too stinkin' smart for my own good, took the phone, saying "Here Mama, I will put it away up here for you so it will be safe while you play with me." Can we add capital B Busted to the list?
And I suppose, if I write to remember, I should tell you that I have abdicated Dani's reading lesson for the day to PBS Kids. But really, can we just forget that one?
I struggle mightily to make the most of these fleeting days, and this without even having a Pinterest account to distract me. Then I beat myself up for struggling. Which is a bit hypocritical, considering how quick I'd be tell you that motherhood shouldn't be about guilt, and life shouldn't be about shoulds, about musts, about reluctant compliance to some ridiculous vision that equates enough with perfection.
So I suppose, if it's true that I write to remember (and I do), I should write about the time I almost forgot that perfection and to-do-lists and glittery art projects and fresh baked bread and straight As and clean toilets and weedless flower beds shall pass away, but the greatest of these is love.
Joining Heather today for Just Write.