I used to have a razor sharp memory. I mean I could remember licence plate numbers from cars that my parents drove when I was growing up. And I could remember important stuff too like when I had to be somewhere, or even where I had to be.
My memory is shot. It's shit. It's almost entirely non existent. Of little consolation is the medically proven fact that HcG, the pregnancy hormone that is responsible for almost every intolerably awful thing that can happen to you when you are pregnant, has worked its magic again. So just when you thought the worst thing about HcG was not being able to go more than 7 minutes without peeing, or apres birth when levels of this hormone dip so low you are convinced that you will never enjoy sex again (or even have it, let alone enjoy it), it reminds you who is in charge once more.
I say consolation because of course the good news is that I don't have early onset althzeimers. My sister can stop calling me Iris, and my husband can stop plotting his week long Madden tournaments thinking that I'll be too "out of it" to understand that these aren't my family but are in fact a bunch of over-age football obsessed morons high on Pabst and cheese curds.
So it isn't my fault. It's the hormones fault. But that just doesn't translate into the real world, where, as a wife, mom of three and professional I have to remember countless things all the time. I've tried lots of different ways to remember stuff too. Outlook, my blackberry, a calendar on the kitchen wall, a calendar on my home computer, a paper diary in my bag. All to no avail. I've written lists (grocery, to do, kids names, best looking guys in High School Musical in desending order) but its pointless. I don't remember where the lists are, or what I was writing it for, or frankly what the point of anything is. I just can't remember.
I do however, find it a fascinating quirk of the human brain, that your memory can suddenly come alive at the most useless of times. Remembering that your daughter has a bake sale as you leave the house on the morning of the bake sale is no good to anybody. In fact, I'd rather not be reminded of that at all. Remembering that you didn't call your mother in law back to tell her what size feet your 3 year old has is probably something you should recall AFTER your husband has finished kissing your neck and nibbling your ear. (You're going to have to trust me on this one - mood killer).
So what am I meant to do? I'm open to suggestions, but short of walking around like Alan Alda in "Hannah and Her Sisters" recording everything into a mini tape recorder ("Idea for movie.......") I'm at a loss. I may have had flashes of genius to solve this problem, but I can't remember any of them anyway. Hell, this was meant to be a blog about something really important. I just forgot what that thing was.