My toddler loves everything she isn’t supposed to have. My bullet journal is no exception. My bullet journal sits open on my desk all day, every day. She constantly comes over to me and sets things on top of it, usually snack containers she wants refilled or milk cups that have been emptied or are mysteriously leaking. When she is done with a toy or wants help with something or just wants me to see what she has it goes on top of my journal.
Because of this, there are tiny sneaker prints on pages, milk droplets, chocolate finger prints, crayon lines on important pages, pen marks, mysterious smears from baby wipes she used to clean up her own mess and then dropped on top of my journal instead of in to the trash can, and a long smear or yuck along the outside edges of the pages where she sat down a squishy piece of banana she decided she didn’t want to eat after all.
You would think with all of that my bullet journal would smell, but somehow, miraculously, it doesn’t. Perhaps I get it cleaned quickly enough that the smell is dispelled even if the stain isn’t.
My bullet journal is my third most loved thing, being surpassed only by my daughter and husband. It is the only object that is only mine. Or it used to be, before my daughter was this mobile.
It took a while, and some days I’m still not terribly accepting, but I’m getting over the little things. The smears of food, the small pen marks, the random stickers she likes to put in there for me. I know I’ll miss all the mess when she’s too big to want to do everything I do and my journal is once again empty of food. In the end, as long as my bullet journal fulfills it’s function of keeping me on track with goals and to do items then we’re still on the right track.
In the mean time I’ve devoted a page here and there to my toddler. A page she can do whatever she pleases on. And a few collaborative pages like this one.
I also add notes next to her additions. “Gross, banana” or “P got excited about her new crayons!” and they always make me smile when I flip through my journals.
In the end, a page can be remade. My toddler’s joy and creativity and for all things Momma can not be rebuilt so easily.