I’m beginning to have grave doubts about my brain’s ability to remember things.
Some would argue that the fact that I’m only beginning to doubt is proof that the problem is much worse than they’d feared. To them I say, “And you are ...?”
I’ve been forgetting small tasks that need doing, like getting yet another gallon of milk or flipping yet another load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. But the problem is growing.
I scheduled a couple of doctor’s appointments for the kids during the week before the start of school, just so that we could get them out of the way before the routine really set in. Besides the normal stuff I can never remember — like, say, which kid shouldn’t take penicillin — it turns out that I can’t keep their birthdays straight either. I kept adding the date for one of them to the month of the other, which confused the heck out of all of the doctors’ computers because that’s how they track everything.
I don’t know why I this information keeps shifting around in my head. It’s not like I wasn’t there when they were born.
But that’s not the worst of it.
The Girl had the last appointment of this round of check-ups. We were running late, which is unusual, actually, because I was raised by anal-retentive Italians who view five minutes early as being 10 minutes late.
The Girl, the Boy, and I flung ourselves up the steps to the dentist’s office. The Girl had spent the entire day complaining about this visit, not because she ever has a cavity but because she hates fluoride treatments. It’s always something with that kid.
The receptionist, who knows me by face if not by name at this point because the Boy has a head full of soft teeth and poor oral hygiene, smiled at us.