Nothing I had planned to do today got done, not counting the big stuff. Big stuff equals things other people count on me doing. Other stuff, the "nothing," equals the stuff on my to-do list, the stuff I count on me doing. Not a one of those things got done today.
I live off of to-do lists. I love them. Sometimes the only way I can go to sleep at night is to make a to-do list for tomorrow. The worry exits my brain, runs down my arm, through my hand, out my fingers, into the pen, and enters the ink that is transferred to my paper, and wah-la, I can sleep. I inherited that trait from my dad. He writes a to-do list on a little sticky note before he goes to bed every night and sticks it to his bathroom mirror. I know this because when I was little, and then not so little, I saw a sticky note on his mirror almost every day while he was at work.
Getting nothing done on my sticky note list means I can't cross anything off, which stresses me out. Especially when I have a cazillion and one things to do before leaving for Kentucky. I can't afford days where nothing is crossed off of my sticky list.
I managed to meet with a praise and worship group at 11 this morning at our apartment, then run over to the Upper East Side in the rain to "work" a birthday party where I danced with 9 year old girls and glittered their faces, ran back over to the West Side to babysit a 6 and 2 year old for a couple of hours where I played with them, bathed them, cooked for them, fed them, and cleaned up after them, ran back to my apartment to meet my husband so I could cook for him, feed him, clean up after him, and then went on a date with him.
We saw Prince Caspian. Loved it. Really really loved it.
So while I accomplished nothing on my to-do list I ran around like a crazy woman all day long. In the rain. In my galoshes. Which are pink with a multi-color criss cross pattern on them. And I like to call them galoshes rather than rain boots. When I play duck-duck-goose with the boys I babysit, I like to fake'em out by saying every word I can think of that starts with the hard sound of the letter "g" and galoshes nearly always ends up in the duck-duck-goose vocabulary. And it's nearly always followed by the 6-year-old, who waits in anticipation for the word "goose" to coincide with my hand patting his head, slumping and tilting his little blond head up at me, and through his smart spectacles inquiring, "What's galoshes?" And I say in between heads, without missing a beat of course because I'm quite skilled at the game, "They're rain boots."
And we run.
And I ran all day long and got nothing done. It's alright. As long as I make the same list out for tomorrow I should be able to sleep just fine.