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Grandma Forgetsitall
By Laurie | January 25, 2008
My adoring fans (my offspring) have given me a new nickname. My sweet angels call me Grandma Forgetsitall. It’s that lovely? It’s especially lovely because I have young children and I’m still a spring chicken myself… nowhere near the Grandma era.
I’m not so sure I can entirely argue with the Forgetsitall part. There are contributing factors to that. I think motherhood is the biggest culprit. When my first princess was born, I used to say she ate half of my brain. Then I went and did it again. Number two took the remaining cranial matter.
Then there were the eighties. I sadly confess that I haven’t always been this sweet, innocent, pure lady you see now on the other side of these words! (Cough, Cough, spit, choke, okay, okay STOP LAUGHING … that wasn’t the funny part!)
Does anyone remember “Poppers”? What the hey was that? I remember little bottles, small enough to keep in your front pocket, containing some funky liquid chemical. When we were on the dance floor shaking our booty, we’d pass this little bottle around and take a big whiff then for a minute or so the room would spin and we laugh and giggle and act like bigger buffoons.
I’m not sure what the original intent of that product was or where it came from. I never bought any. But me thinks it likely cut off oxygen to the brain for moments. Kids don’t try this at home. It’s only by God’s grace and mercy, I am here to type about it! It sure seemed like a fun idea at the time.
Then there were the postpartum antidepressants. Ug. Wish I had that to do all over again. I’d pass on those little yellow and green pills. Research has shown that they can cause memory loss. Y’think?? Now what was I just telling you about?
Last week as we were donning our winter coats I told the girls, “Don’t let mommy forget to drop this video off at the library. It’s due back before the library closes… today.” Moments later we are driving down Chicago Drive, headed to the third annual Hootenanny at church. We sailed right past the public library. “Arrrrrrrrrr geezzzzzzzzz girls. We forgot the movie!” “No mommy, you forgot it,” my wee one announces. Then from the back, I hear my oldest whisper, “Grandma Forgetsitall”.
Tell me I’m not the only one who walks into the kitchen and forgets why I’m there. I stand there like a deer in headlights. “A d’urrrrr, why am I here?” Then I decide to go back into the other room and retrace my steps, imagining that such an exercise will jar my memory. But then I get into the other room and forget that I’m supposed to be retracing.
I really don’t think that I’m that much of a motherhood anomaly. I think it’s merely that I confess it. Or maybe it’s that you don’t remember that you do it. It’s called d-e-n-i-a-l. And, no, I’m not talking about that river in Egypt.
Sometimes I will remember that I have to tell so-so about that the such-and-such. So I do. But then I can’t remember that I said it, only that I need to remember to tell her. So I tell her again. Then by the third time, she tell me that yes, indeed, I have mentioned it … and mentioned it three times in fact. Oh.
Conversely, that works to my disadvantage too. “Girls, I asked you to put on your shoes, we’re going to be late!” “Mom, you didn’t say anything about our shoes.” “Yes, I did. Now c’mon let’s go.” “Mom, you really didn’t.” “Yes I did, don’t argue with me.” “Mommmm, I swear, you didn’t say anything about putting on our shoes?” Then I remembered that I have on occasion been afflicted with Mommyheimers. “I didn’t? Are you sure?” “Yes Mom, I’m positive.” “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, please put on your shoes, we need to leave.” I then heard the faint whisper of the words “Grandma Forgetsitall”.
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