I'm not a finisher. I'm not. It's something I feel quite bad about. I have a stack of "thank you" cards from a baby shower my friends in Woods Cross threw for me that have been waiting for me to finish, seal, and send them. They've been waiting since May. May--I tell you. Pathetic! Ungrateful! Shameful!
I also have a stack of adorable birth announcements-- for the boys I gave birth to in July. July, I say! My amazing friend Jo designed them, had them printed, and even brought them to my house for me in a mad rush. And now they're gathering dust because it took me 2 months to get to the store for envelopes.
And then there are the Christmas stockings I've been working on since before Maggie was born. She's 2. And I'm still trying to get them done 3 kids later.
I have a pile of half-made Christmas presents I'm sewing for my sisters-in-law. The gifts are nearing completion. But girls, if it turns out you get lotion or candy or earrings or something store bought instead on the 25th--just know I tried. Really. And maybe I'll finish them in time for your birthdays.
The Halloween quilt I got back from the quilter in October is sitting on my washer waiting to be bound.
It's embarrassing how I can't manage to get anything done. We won't even try to talk about housework. Or the fact that I need to get on the phone and take care of my church calling. And the Christmas tree needs lighting. And decorating. And admiring.
But I guess I at least completed the task of recognizing that I'm a loser. So, that's done. Good. Moving on...
[P.S. This is a declaration--my way of accepting that I have a problem. So you don't need to tell me that I'm being too hard on myself. Instead, give me a kick in the pants.]