When I’m feeling scattered, I make a list of things to do. I usually give it this title:
List of Things to Do

But sometimes, I’m more specific, like this:
Great Big List of Things to Do

Or this:
Great Big List of Things to Do Before I Die, Which, Let's Face It, Could Be Soon If I Don't Start Exercising

Today’s list is short. It says:
1) File taxes.
2) Plan party.
3) Learn Swedish.

The party is for my husband, and the Swedish thing is a long story, but the taxes make it onto a few lists every year. I’ll write “taxes,” and later, “taxes, dammit,” and finally, “taxes!!!!” until I’m able to cross them off an April list with a big, proud X.

Over the years, every so often, I’ve crammed old lists into a basement drawer. I was in the middle of a recent cleaning jag when I opened the drawer and faced them all — two decades’ worth of Things to Do.

From college, junior year:
1) Write CT essay.
2) Give you-know-who a definite NO.
3) Solve shoe problem.

My husband found me in the laundry room, surrounded by paper. “Who’s ‘you-know-who?’” he asked, reading over my shoulder.

I couldn’t remember.

“What was the shoe problem?”

I didn’t know that, either, and there was no X over the number three. What if I was still walking around with a shoe problem and didn’t even realize it?

I squinted. The “CT essay” was ringing a distant bell. “Critical Thinking,” I guessed. “Or maybe Clarence Thomas.”

Why on earth had I saved this stuff? The whole mess was just a big, confusing fire hazard. I was starting to feel grumpy and overwhelmed, so I flipped over the college list and began a new list on the back of the page: 1) Stop saving old lists.

Then I went to get the trashcan.

When I returned to the laundry room, my husband was crouched near the drawer, reading and smiling. “Funny,” he said. Then he left me alone with the can and the clutter.

Sifting through pages, I found this, from 1999:
1) Find car keys.
2) Learn to make play dough.
3) Fix baby’s sleep issues.

And this one, from 2009:
1) Try to relax.
2) Learn to French braid.
3) Adjust children’s attitudes.

The only item that had been X’d out was the thing about the play dough. I had eventually gotten a recipe for it, although my version — stinky, sticky, never quite right — made kids cry.

I decided to save just these two lists. I thought they seemed like bookends.

But then it turned out that a lot of the lists were that way.

Moving into a new house:
1) Call cable company.
2) Get new couch.

And moving out:
1) Cancel cable.
2) Drag couch to curb.

Early January, any year:
1) Learn to love green tea.
2) Figure out what to do about hair.
3) Join gym.

And football season, any year:
1) Get bratwurst.
2) Find ping pong balls.
3) Cancel gym membership.

Before a big vacation:
1) Buy sunscreen.
2) Lose five pounds.
3) Write note for dog sitter.

And after a big vacation:
1) Buy aloe.
2) Lose 10 pounds.
3) Write complaint letter to airline — tell them where they can stick their baggage fees and that wad of blue gum from my armrest.

Some of the lists were not dated, but I could tell from their contents what kind of mood I’d been in.

Thrifty:
1) Sell clothes @ consignment store.
2) Count money in penny jar.
3) Consider Spam.

Or contemplative:
1) Stop being so bossy.
2) Learn to live in the moment.

Or slightly nuts:
1) No kidding — fix baby’s sleep issues!
2) Or maybe just hide in the closet with a blanket over my head!!
3) And when will teething be over????

Most of the lists were just reminders about everyday chores, like the taxes. But some included little additions in my husband’s handwriting — grocery requests, or notes to say “hello,” or to-do suggestions that can’t be printed here.

And some entries reminded me of the way my kids had grown. (“Don’t forget pacifiers.” “TWO boxes of fruit snacks.” “Chamber of Secrets on CD.” “Buy Jedi costume.”)

I remembered why I had saved the lists.

So in the end, I didn't throw any away. I just smoothed them and stacked them, and then I closed the drawer.

Heather Heath Chapman is a writer and a mother of two. You can reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.