Sometimes I really wish I had a time machine. If I had one, I would crank that dial back to a whole different time in my life. Like the one where I had toned thighs and could remember what I was planning on getting out of the refrigerator when I opened its door. Yeah, one of those times. I realize that some folks would pick a time with dinosaurs or some major historical event, but I’d be real happy just to see a glimpse of myself before I started falling apart with such abandon.
Take for instance this blog draft that’s been sitting in my draft box for nearly a year. “Toothbrush penis joke.” Apparently there was a time when I really thought typing those three little words was all it would take to jog my memory into recollection of what must have been a real rip-snorter of a moment in my world. I mean, three kids like mine and this is the stuff of a normal dinner conversation. Toothbrush penis joke. Yeah, I have absolutely no idea.
And that just makes me sad. When did my memory start working like this. Talk about capricious. I can remember where every stray sock is in the house, but cannot for life of me remember at what age the last kiddo started walking. I am going to have to add a wee tag line to the first page of his baby book: A Work of Plausible Fiction. I always start out thinking I’m going to write about absolutely everything my babies do, but then I get so dang sleep deprived that I forget what his/her name is, let alone when they hit certain milestones. If I didn’t take photos of each of their quirky little moments, I’d really have no idea. Take this picture for example. I think my oldest son made this out of Playdoh last Halloween, but I really have no clue. But that sounds good, so I’m just going with it.
Makes my own rather brief baby book seem a lot less like a testimony of a mother’s love and more like a miracle more divine than any smiling Jesus visage found on a piece of toast.