I’ve been staring at the brown wooden paneling in my daughter’s room for months because I’m too afraid to paint it.
I don’t know how to pick paint colors. Or spackle.
I’m not good at home decorating, or picking out tchotchkes or fabrics or frames. I don’t know how to sew.
My culinary skills are extremely limited and if I find time at 10 am to think about what we should have for dinner by 5pm I feel ahead in the menu planning game.
I can never seem to figure out how to properly blow-dry my hair. If any kind of event requires properly styled hair I try to schedule a hair appointment into the mix.
I’m usually fighting a losing battle against laundry and dishes and there are stains in my carpet I’ve given up on altogether. I don’t care how my sheets or towels are folded; I’m just happy if there are clean ones in the closet.
I don’t enjoy craft projects or reading children’s books aloud.
I have yet to figure out how to accessorize. I can’t make skinny jeans and knee high boots work as much as I try and despite how many different pairs or brands I’ve wrestled in fitting rooms.
I’m never going to remember to take a photo a day or plan a shopping trip around coupons.
There’s a soft spot under my chin where the top of my daughter’s head fits perfectly.
I know how to dance with her curled into the side of my face as I two step her to sleep.
I know that Jackson is ticklish on his thighs and that special spot where his freckle stands out against his neck. The angrier Micah is the more I know to hold and love him. I know how to pat Jack’s head just so to help him fall asleep at night and which stuffed animals Micah needs in his bed.
I can tell by Zoe’s cry whether she needs her pacifier, a bottle or me.
After fifteen years I can still make Peter laugh like nobody else can.
I know how to turn anything into a story that will hold my kids wide-eyed in anticipation. I can growl and wrestle and pounce like an African lioness and turn my children into devoted cubs even on the worst of days.
Give me a hotdog and half a slice of bread and I can give you a tasty toasted snack to make even my pickiest eater happy.
I am good at giving encouragement. I know the right words for lifting the tired spirits of new moms. I make a champion ice cream and strawberry sundae. I am the chaser away of bad dreams and singer of nonsense songs.
I have taught my children how to dance in the rain. Literally.
I can work through the chaos of ninjas and drums and a kitchen table piled high with leftover everything. Words come to me while I do dishes and writing them down never leaves me empty.
I sing off key and usually with the wrong lyrics, but it has never stopped me.
I have learned how to cheer women on rather than be threatened by their success and I will teach my daughter how to do the same.
I know Jesus loves me and has built gifts into me that serve Him and fill me up with joy in the process. I am slowly learning contentment in the size of my house, the shape of my thighs, and the end of my days.
I stop to celebrate sunsets.
I am good at these things.
Your turn – go ahead, let’s share what we’re good at, for a change.