To an outsider looking in, it probably doesn't look like I did much today.
I didn't get the clean laundry folded and it has been glaring at me from the guest room for three days now. I didn't scrub the floors like I probably should have. I didn't check off all (or even close to all) items off my to-do list.
I didn't shower or put makeup on or do my hair. I didn't bother changing my shirt even though it had some spit-up from the baby on it and some Cheerios from my toddler. I didn't make a home cooked, gourmet meal carefully chosen from someone's Pinterest board for dinner.
I didn't remember to make the eye doctor appointment I needed to or to look for that missing shoe. I didn't clear out my email inbox and I didn't finish that lingering work task I never can seem to get to. I didn't pick up the groceries we need or bring the car in for an oil change.
To an outsider looking in, it probably doesn't look like I've accomplished much in my life.
I haven't won an Oscar or a Pulitzer Prize or a national championship. I haven't climbed Everest or Kilimanjaro. I haven't backpacked Europe or camped in Yellowstone.
I haven't mingled with celebrities or dined with royalty. I haven't written that hit song or performed in front of millions of fans. I haven't competed in the Olympic Games or landed on the moon.
I haven't walked the runways at Fashion week and the only vintage I'm wearing are my husband's sweatpants from college. I haven't lose the baby weight or stuck to a gym routine that works for this season of my life.
I haven't magically been excused from experiencing #momfails, I haven't cracked the code to toddler tantrums. I haven't performed life-saving surgeries or cured cancer. I haven't mastered driving stick shift or surfing or even how to use a curling wand.
To an outsider looking in, my life probably doesn't seem grand enough, exciting enough.
I don't live in a huge home. I don't wear designer clothes. I don't give lavish, over-the-top gifts. I don't frequent the spa. I don't belong to a country club or a fancy gym. I don't have a personal chef. I don't go on luxurious vacations. I don't have VIP tickets to see Beyoncé or courtside seats to the Celtics. I don't even wear jeans that often (leggings for life).
So, why then, would I say that I feel like the luckiest person in the world? Why do I smile so wide and beam with pride?
Because I love the life I lead.
And while there are many, many things I didn't do—I did do more than one might think.
I did model how to act with kindness even while frustrated. I did help my preschooler practice tying her shoes. I did cheer my toddler on when she was uninhibitedly dancing to her favorite song. I did create magic and I did instill confidence.
I did fill my children's bellies and gently brushed their hair and hugged them when they fell. I did soothe my baby's cries by rocking her in my arms. I did sing the "ABC's" and "Old McDonald" too many times to count.
I did hug my husband for a long, long time when he got home and asked about his day. I did come up with a great idea I shared with my team at work. I did pick up around the house as best I could with the limited time I had and I even watched one of my favorite shows post-bedtime.
Oh, and I did write this essay.
And while there are many, many things I haven't done—I have done more than one might think.
I have given birth to three beautiful, healthy girls. I have married the love of my life. I have kept strong friendships going, some for almost 30 years.
I have told the people I love how much they mean to me. I have practiced gratitude today and will work harder on grace tomorrow. I have plotted and planned and hoped and dreamed.
And while there are many, many things I don't do or have—I do have a lot.
I have arms that are full with giggly toddlers and loving preschoolers and chunky babies. I have a husband who looks at me like I'm the most beautiful, interesting person in the world.
I have a family who cheers me on and supports my dreams. I have friends who love me for who I am. I have co-workers who are brilliant and creative and encouraging.
I have a home where I feel safe and rested. I have food on the table, a clean bill of health, clothes on my back and love in my heart.
I may not do much or have much—but somehow, I have it all.