This isn’t the first time we’ve forgotten somewhat vital information about our family. I think the more kids you have, the less space is left in your brain for remembering things like birthdays, social security numbers, or taking the keys out of the ignition before locking your car.
I tell someone my age is “twenty-seven” and Jon reminds me that I’m twenty-eight.
I go to visit a friend, whose house I’ve been to several times, and end up knocking at a strangers door.
I walk out of the grocery without my groceries.
I consistently call my best friend’s number when trying to reach my husband.
I consistently call my mother-in-law when I’m trying to reach my friend.
I once hung up on a car insurance salesman asking what kind of car I drive, too ashamed to admit I couldn’t remember.
I’ve made more U-turns than I care to admit, burned more dinners than Mr. Mom, and have forgotten my own wedding anniversary on two separate occasions (the good news is that my husband forgot it, too. Or is that the bad news?)
Bitty just came in to ask me where I put her blocks. I don’t know, honey. Look in the refrigerator.