Guest Author
My memory bank has officially run out of room. I’ve used up so much space over the years memorizing New Order lyrics and dialogue from The Breakfast Club, that I now require something formal, like a calendar invite, to remember birthdays, sex and my sons’ annual checkups.
Sad, but true.
When Jacob and Zachary were little, I had my shit together. I paid bills on time. I could recall an old friend’s name. I’d go grocery shopping without lists.
I’d remember to pick up snacks for Little League, keeping in mind which kids had peanut allergies and which kids were gluten-free. Later that night, I’d remember to stop sipping and actually put some wine in the sauce while making dinner.
I was amazing.
Now I need a post-it on the bathroom mirror to remind me to shave my legs. I have to write something down if I want to remember it.
“Put it on my calendar!” has become my new mantra. Finally replacing “does this smell weird to you?”
My kids don’t understand how I’ve turned into this middle-aged woman. I’m not only forgetful; I’m easily distracted.
Sometimes while sitting right next to them, making eye contact while they update me on fascinating subjects including which kid annoyed them at school or which sports team disappointed on the field, only to respond with, “What now?” when they’re finished.
My mind wanders to a million places and I can’t help it.
What’s happened to me?
My kids can’t fathom the idea that I’m ever thinking about something other than their precious asses. I have news for them – they’re 16 years old! Those asses haven’t been precious in years. Not since puberty hit and they forgot how to aim and wipe.
What else are moms thinking about besides their kids? What takes up space in the old noodle instead of dates and times and details of our children’s every whim and fancy? This is just some of what mothers contemplate on a daily basis:
Body scents change after 46. Adds to the fun.
Please stop telling us to smile.
Is that tattoo a scratch-n-sniff?
GOOD GOD no one should ever smell dental floss.
What made our parents think The Shining and Watership Down were appropriate?
If our single friends let us play with their Tinder accounts, none of us would need Lexapro.
When they say those with disabilities can board the plane first, do eyebrows count?
Hair?
Voting habits?
I could go on and on.
There is a special place in hell reserved for those who respond to everything we say with a statement about themselves.
Whatever happened to, “Really? Tell me more.”
Wow, that guy. Is he single? And childless?
Stop asking us what we’re thinking. Dynamite, bleach, and are they traceable? That’s what we’re thinking.
That one time we did the Macarena back in ’96. That’s regret.
What the heck is a thot?
The only people burdened by self-awareness, don’t need it.
More fingernails behind the bed. This is what will ultimately kill us. Not bacon.
Forget Hillary or Donald. Another newspaper goes under while TMZ and Buzzfeed thrive. That’s doom.
Please, by all means be happy. Just do it quietly.
Being an ambivert. It’s a thing.
Those cannot be real.
This is the Express Lane and there are 23 items in my cart. Fantastic. I’m officially an asshole.
What now?
After two weeks, our roots are showing. So are our horns.
That beard is not OK.
If I don’t come back, they’ll find me.
When was that assignment due?
Please stop coughing and go home.
Scooters for fat people are covered by insurance, but hearing aids for old people are not.
More things should make sense.
The kid didn’t finish his review packet and got an F. “The upside,” he says. “I beat the number two guy in the country in Fantasy Hockey last night and won $300.”
Kids expect us to be happy about that kind of stuff.
Sixteen years of parenting. Exhausted. Are we done yet?
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Catherine Durkin Robinson co-parents twin sons, organizes families for advocacy purposes, writes syndicated columns, mentors kids, runs a few races and investigates missing socks. Column courtesy of Context Florida.
