1. I can start something without knowing how it’s going to end. I have intentions, but they are nothing so grand that I fear veering off course. My aunt told a story about watching my uncle meander through the house, talking to himself about some stalled repair. “I said (hands on hips), ‘I thought you were fixing the leak!’ and he said, ‘I am. My first try didn’t work, so I’m figuring out my next plan.’ I forget that he doesn’t know how to do everything, but he still manages to tackle anything.”
And he was dealing with plumbing. I’m just messing with twine! Pffft. I so got this.
Not mine. But coulda been. Easily.
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2. Being creative doesn’t define every single aspect of my being. I can be design-y. And then, like, NOT design-y. Go ahead and declare your architectural intentions at the age of 8, and then let me know ANY OTHER WORD people use to describe you beyond “creative” (or “weird”) for the next 25 years. Sometimes a girl just wants to tack a red heart on a pink card and call it a day, ya’ know? There may be deeper meaning should I fashion papyrus sheets by hand, but this pack of construction paper is 100 sheets for $1. Sold!
Feb 4: My pARTy effort. Make it, tape it, and call it art. Works for me.
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3. I can keep things in place with a wee-dot of tacky glue. More than I can accomplish with my children.
Jan 28: You can't fight the awesome holding power of Aleene's...
...so just give in now.
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4. I can do something for absolutely no reason at all. It’s liberating. It’s (gasp) fun. It’s pushing a red button just because it’s red, or parking in the Employee of the Month spot when you work elsewhere. No earth-impacting responsibilities or guiding the life path of a tantruming toddler. Dude, I’m just making some shit.
Feb 3: Jar full o' paper beads, made and gave away. Of course, Jen did wonders with them.
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5. I feel like a good parent. To my 1′s and 2′s of readers: good heavens, I’m not implying you are a bad parent if aren’t crafty. Simmer. Case in point, below: I stole my kids’ crayons, chopped them up under the cover of darkness, melted them down, claimed “that smell” was cooking vegetables, and gifted the results to children I don’t know. Hardly awesome child-rearing. But when I walked Lilah into her classroom, mildly depressed because she would be absent on Valentine’s Day, she managed a shy, proud smile when handing over a bag full of homemade hearts, gifted to her friends 1 day early. If I could have stuck that shy smile on card backing and packaged it in a cellophane wrapper, you can bet I would have kept it for myself.
Feb 12: There's HOW many kids in your class?
You realize that's writing your name 29 times, right?
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6. There is produced proof that I am not helpless, + bonus: I allow myself to feel pride. I told myself I would use this outlet only for documenting the positive, no matter how trivial. Why? Because when I first started writing, I was completely mired in moment-to-moment failures. Self-shaming is an ugly jerk. With bad breath. It was either, “I’m going to find some freaking joy in this moment, so help me!” or admit defeat against all things, everywhere, triple-forever and ever. And, um, the later seemed a bit…dramatic. So yes, using the dining room chairs to form a Cone of Crafting (i.e. fencing off the kids), hacking a DIY tutorial, and completing a silly project in double the suggested time, with mistakes, are sources of pride I whole-heartedly accept. Because I tried. And failed. And came out from the piano bench and tried again, and learned, tinkered, resolved and slapped a bow around it. And then I invited my husband into the Cone of Crafting and did my “Can I Get A What-What” dance upon presenting the final product to his smiling approval.
Mar 17: I didn't curse ONCE during this project.
That's a personal best.
That’s right: when I feel good, I quote Jay-Z. Can I get a whoop-whoop?
