I used to be the kind of person who showed up early everywhere I went, whether it was to classes where professors smiled in admiration at my dedication, or to frat parties where it was assumed you were a sex-addicted alcoholic if you showed up on time.
I carried a planner in my purse (because it was during dinosaur times before we kept our schedules in our phones), and always knew what was happening and where and when and all the pertinent details. I never missed an appointment, neglected to set my alarm, forgot an item on my grocery list. People who knew me would say I was one of the most organized and dependable people they knew. Phrases like “obsessive compulsive” and “anal” may or may not have been tossed about. My biggest reoccurring nightmare was showing up to class unprepared for a test. I was a young woman who had my shit together.
Fast forward thirteen years, a marriage and two kids later…
{{{waving wiggly lines and harp riffs taking us to yesterday}}}
At four p.m., we have a therapy consultation for Lucas to figure out what we need to do to help this kid (and us) manage his ADHD. Over the phone, the therapist’s office manager has told me the office is a five story building behind our favorite Mexican place and, no problem, I know where that is. My husband comes home late from work, and though I’m annoyed, I’m not worried, as I have planned extra time into the schedule. HIGH FIVE.
We pick up Lucas from school and are on our way with a few minutes to spare. We come upon the aforementioned favorite Mexican place, behind which is zero buildings. There are TWO of these Mexican places, it turns out, which I would have known had I researched online ahead of time. I call the therapist’s office and explain our mistake. At 4:09, we walk in to the therapist’s office. My husband has a hand on my shoulder: “It’s fine, babe. Just relax. It’s fine.” I know it’s my fault that we’re late, not his, because it was my job to know where the appointment was.
The therapist comes around the corner looking all warm and cozy, cuddling a giant mug against her chest with one hand (Coffee? Herbal tea? What am I dealing with here?) and reaching out the other hand for introductions. She says, “And you have the paperwork, I suppose?”
SHIT.
I forgot the mother%#$ing paperwork!
The paperwork that the office manager sent me because the first one didn’t come through on my email, because even my email is a forgetful hot mess. The paperwork which I mentioned in the notes of my calendar appointment because it was so important to bring that paperwork. The paperwork that takes twenty minutes to fill out and tells the therapist why we’re bringing our kid to therapy in the first place and what our concerns are and all that jazz.
The therapist disappears to get me a fresh set of paperwork. Embarrassed and shaking like a hundred-year-old woman, I fill out the stupid paperwork while Lucas meets with the therapist cold.
This morning. I wake up with my four-year-old’s hand over my face, at 8:15, right when we’re supposed to be walking out the door to take her to preschool. Because I forgot to set my alarm last night.
I could keep going, but I think I’ve made my point.
What the hell, Motherhood?
Yeah, that’s right, Motherhood, you sly, cuddly bitch. I blame you. With all your warm promises of infinite love, family vacations and tickle fights on the living room floor, you suckered me in. And now I have become not just a shadow, but an inversion of my former self. I don’t even feel like me anymore. Where I once was confident, I am now anxious and unsure. Where I once was punctual, just… oh frick, forget it. Color-coordinated closets and alphebetical filing cabinets have been replaced by pantries overflowing with craft supplies and junk drawers filled with things I could not name if my dog’s life depended upon it. The dog who, though I love him, I occasionally forget to take outside and he shits on the floor.
And didn’t I used to be smart? What the everloving hell happened to my brains? I have a master’s degree for Pete’s sake. In high school, I aced advanced placement chemistry with the same amount of effort it takes to file my nails. And now I cannot even remember to fill out some freaking paperwork or set a damn alarm? Really? Screw you, Motherhood. I’m sure I’ll feel better about all of this in a couple weeks when I’m riding Dumbo at the Magic Kingdom, but for now? Motherhood? Kiss my ass.
5 Comments
The dog shitting on the floor had me in tears! Great read!
Screw you motherhood! I can’t wear pants that don’t stretch. I can’t complete a thought or remember an appointment and nobody thinks I’m the cool mom I swore I was going to be.
I’m a fruit snack away from joining something easier. Like a circus.
Thank goodness I found this blog. I’d already accepted that I have early stage alzheimer’s (self-diagnosed), but now it looks as though the light at the end of the tunnel might not be a train. 🙂 The only point I experienced differently was confidence. I had myself together b.c. because I always worried about not being prepared for any possible outcome. Now that I know the world doesn’t end when nothing works out, I’m a LOT more relaxed about things not working to plan. @chrissy – I also miss wearing my non-stretch pants (boo). Sometimes.
I’m right there with you. I used to be smart (tho never really all that punctual). I used to have my act together. Case in point, my day care keeps asking everyone to update their child’s medical forms. I patted myself on the back for getting mine in early. Turns out I’d been carrying the filled out form in my bag for months and only figured it out yesterday. Nice job, me!
One time my mom got in the car and drove to my school, not noticing I wasn’t in the car. I wondered how that could happen. This is, until I had children of my own that I’d forget to put in the car.
As always, hilarious.