“One thing they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child’s name and how old he or she is.” — Erma Bombeck Boy, ain’t that the truth! My kids get so offended when I ask them when their birthdays are. Look, it’s not like I’ve ever forgotten a birthday. I throw my children wonderful birthday parties with cake and presents and friends. One time I even showed up with a puppy, charmingly wrapped up in a polka dot box. Before that, I once showed up with two kittens. What I’m trying to say is, I’m an idiot. Wait! No! That’s NOT what I’m trying to say! I’m trying to say I’m a good mom who sometimes can’t remember her kids’ birth dates. Or their ages. Or sometimes, their names. This usually happens when I’m filling out a form or writing out a list. Sometimes, though, I have to admit I’ll look straight at one of my children and flat out forget their name. Or, God forbid, I’ll call them by the wrong name, like their sister’s name or one of the dogs’ names. It happens. Personally, I think we as parents are expected to know way too much. For instance, in the past 24 hours, I have been required to know: • The factors of 48 (which are, I believe, 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, 16, 24 and 48) • Where my younger daughter’s jar of beads is (on the kitchen table) • Where my older daughter’s Nike shorts are (on the bathroom floor) • Where to find the red bandana (Lord, I have no idea. Let’s just go to Walmart) • The answer to 7X6 (42) • What’s for dinner (burgers) • Where the batteries for the dog collars are (in the hall cabinet) • The phone number to the hair salon (304-645-2898) • Whether the dogs have been fed (yes) • Where the shin guards are (under the couch) • When soccer games, soccer practice, dance class, and CrossFit kids are happening, and who’s taking whom where (Thursday, Wednesday, everyday but Tuesday, Tuesday and Thursday, Grandma, Nana, Grandma, Nana, Me). Not too bad, right? But you have to remember that I also need to run my own life, where I am required to remember: • Which side of the car the gas tank is located (the right) • How much weight I need to add onto a 45-pound bar bell to equal 135 (one 35-pound and one 10-pound plate on each side) • To turn on the curling iron • To turn off the curling iron • My gym bag • My lunch box • My umbrella • My water bottle • My phone • My purse • To buy Chapstick, cat litter, conditioner, lunch meat and Q-Tips • To put mascara on BOTH eyes • Earrings • Whether the title of a play is italicized or in placed in quotation marks (quotation marks), and whether the word “historical” is preceded by “a” or “an” (it’s “a”) • The calorie count for a glass of orange juice (140). Plus, I have to remember to nag my husband, because, without me, he’d never know: • That he needs a haircut • That those shorts really need to be thrown out • To pack some clean clothes for the soccer game • That shirt is hideous • Those socks don’t match • Wait! Those socks are MINE • That the litter boxes need changed. So really, when I think about it, the fact that I’m sitting here stringing words together to form sentences is nothing short of a freaking miracle. So, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my article for The Clay County Free Press or whatever newspaper it is that I write for.
