I have an involved relationship with my planner. Where I go, it goes; where it goes, I go. It reigns regally in it’s spot of honor on our kitchen counter. Should it be nudged by an aggressing family member, the offense I take is immediate and egregious. The planner is not to be trifled with.
It does my thinking for me. Long sometime early college, my brain ceased capability of independent functioning. It hooked up with a pencil and a sweet 2 page-a-week Daytimer. They quickly became besties. For life. When all the other fab young minds took to smartphones for their organizational needs, my leather-bound love held tight.
Without it, I am lost. What it tells me to do, I do. When a thought enters my head, I must immediately scribble it down. I have absurdly tried tossing caution to the wind in the past, “Nah, no need to write that down. Surely I will remember to pick up dog food when I am next blowing our budget at Target.” What silly fool I am.
As stated, my brain does not function sans its trusty old-school pen and paper. It’s a relationship of mutual dependence. The thoughts go in, the actions come out, and the process repeats, each validating the existence of the other.
Except when it doesn’t.
Enter February 12, 2015.
On the top right-hand corner of the day I had written “#10” and circled it–about sixteen times.
You see, I have intricate system–honed over years with a neurotic personality. Pencil means one thing; pen another. A line-drawn-through obviously equals “done!”. Placement in the left-hand column indicates, “beg husband to do”. I save social media inspirations for the lower right side.
A circle? A head’s up to actually do it. Even worse? I never, ever put anything in the upper right-hand corner. I have no idea why, though suspect some early bartered deal between my subconscious and my planner that must be quintessential.
Yet the #10 was there. In the upper right-hand corner. And I had no idea what it meant.
I did what any modern-day mom lacking normal contact with functioning adults would do: I took to Facebook. And the suggestions were genius. An idea for a hashtag? Read it as lb. sign and it must have something to do with my weight loss goals? The number of the winner I wanted to pick in my current giveaway?
Excellent suggestions! None of them work. It has now been eleven days since that ill-marked date and I still have no clue what that #10 means.
In the dark corners of my adorable insomnia-filled nights, you can only imagine the nifty stuff I dream up–and then run by my too-thrilled husband in the morning. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was ticked; I am–at myself. Like, dude, my life is hard enough without adding extra cryptic puzzles to the daily fun. Why would I do this to myself??
Regardless, the #10 in all its mystery remains. And while I can be endlessly miffed at myself over its ambiguity, in short, it bring us back to that too-true repetitively-preached Mom of the Year truth: give yourself grace. Lots of it. The kind of grace that hopes that #10 is a meaningless notation aimlessly scribbled in the delusional hours-on-end with whiny children. The kind of grace that acknowledges that even if this was the most important note you would write to yourself and then forget, you will somehow survive.
But mostly, the kind of grace that really, really prays that #10 didn’t even matter to begin with. Because otherwise, you’re screwed.
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