There was a time when I was crazy organized. I knew where everything was at every single second. Keys? Over in the basket. Stamps? In the bill thing. The picture of my husband Ronnie and I on our honeymoon eighteen years ago? The blue photo album, third from the bottom in the hall closet.
Yea, that was then. That was pre-chemo. That was before my seven-year-old daughter, Mandy started chemo for a brain tumor. Now? Now, most of the time, I have no clue. About much of anything. Today, I was mailing some stuff at my desk. I set down a book of stamps after having addressed one envelope. I addressed the second one, stamps? Yea, GONE. No clue where they went. Twenty minutes later I found them. In the kitchen cabinet. Next to the glasses. Only reason I found them was cause I got thirsty looking for them. I vaguely remember being asked to get my son, Zachary a bowl (which live next to the glasses) between envelope one and envelope two.
Normally, my newly developed idiocy affects no one. Normally, it just costs me an average of sixty-three point seven minutes of my life every day that I will never get back. Normally, it just gives Ronnie and my teenage daughter Alannah a good laugh at my expense. For some reason they find my frantic, constant searching, while muttering constantly how it was right here a second ago for keys, shoes, purses, my brain, whatever ... funny. I am becoming okay with it. Really. I have become one with the fact that if I don’t write it down, there is no way it is going to get done. I fully expect to have to put a post it above my bathroom sink soon that says, “Hey stupid, did you brush your teeth? Brush your hair? How about a shower? Do one of those today?” Now, I never forget medications dosages or names, doctor appointments, last weeks blood work numbers or her weight from last week. I can remember dates of treatment, measurements of tumors and doctors phone numbers. But, anything else? I make no guarantees. Mandy is much like me. The old organized together me. She usually is very organized and knows where everything of everybody’s is at all times.
I think , it is possible, that I might have committed a major, MAJOR error. It may very well buy me a spot on the coveted Wall of Fame for WORST. MOMMY. EVER!
Mandy’s room was painted on Saturday so everything was in a shambles. We spent Monday afternoon putting things back together. I took this opportunity to regain some of my hyper organized control thing. Yea, right, bad call on my part. I threw away a small truck load of junk. She is seven and every single piece of paper meant something at some point to her. So, together we went through it all and got rid of about six grocery bags full of stuff. To the dumpster. Gone. Ba Bye. I was feeling very proud of my cleaning frenzy. Room was clean and organized and everything in it’s place. Ha! I am triumphant cleaning Goddess. So there, messy chaos. Take that.
Then, two days later. Room still clean. I am still triumphant.
“Momma, I can’t find my Nintendo DS anywhere,” Mandy yells from her oh-so-clean room. Because did I mention I was triumphant housecleaner super Mom? My cape is on order to complete the super hero look.
“It’s around ...” Please see page forty-three of the mommy handbook, pages fourteen to twenty-three to read the lecture that followed about paying attention to your stuff. Yea, I know, kind of the pot calling the kettle black when I can’t even find my %**$%W#%^W#%^CS STAMPS. But, hey, I am the Mom. Dealing out great big doses of do as I as not as I do are one of the perks of the job. Don’t judge me.
“Momma, really, I can’t find it anywhere.” This is after thirty minutes of hard core searching, the girl had some game playing she wanted to do and the lack of a DS was a real problem.
Cue big sigh, eye rolling from me, “Ok, I am going to help you find it. But you better blahblahblah (Again insert previously discussed lecture here. The Cliff Notes version this time.)”
Uh huh. Two full hours later. I have now gotten other two kids involved in the search. I have promised a dollar to whoever finds it. I am acting like crazy woman. It is possible I was foaming at the mouth. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I tear apart the car. I tear apart the house. I move every couch cushion. Heck, I moved every couch. I went through every drawer, I cleaned all the crap that lives in my car out. Which anyone who has seen my car knows that my heroic, triumphant, super dooper house cleaning self doesn’t translate to the car. Ever. It is a rolling trash can.
Nowhere. It is nowhere. Pink DS is officially MIA.
Alannah comes out while I am tearing the car apart. And says, “Momma, you don’t suppose it’s possible that you threw it away when you were in your cleaning frenzy in Mandy’s room do you?” She was speaking in that tone of voice that hostage negotiators use with the crazy guy in the clown mask holding up the bank.
Now, in my previous life, this would have offended me greatly. How dare you question my superior organizational skills, you mere mortal. Today, nope. Today, this question made me gasp one of those, “Ew, what did I just step in?” gasps and say a word I shouldn’t say in front of my thirteen-year-old daughter.
‘Cause ya know what? It ain’t outside of the realm of possibilities that in the midst of my cleaning frenzy that it somehow landed in, on, or near one of the grocery bags of crap that left the room.
So, now, two hours of my life I will never get back have passed. I am no closer to finding the stupid DS. My super dooper, triumphant cleaning job is now strung out all over the floor like the place had been ransacked by the mob. And I have cussed in front of my thirteen year old. Good times.
And of course, the trash men? Yea, they came this morning. And I actually remembered to take the trash cans down to the curb last night. Mainly cause they were overflowing because I forgot to take them down on Friday. Stop it. I didn’t have it written down. So I can’t even go dumpster diving for it.
Now, I am not saying that I threw it away. I am just saying that I have sure looked everywhere else I can possibly think of. I did look next to the glasses. It’s not there. Could you look in some stupid, obscure place in your house and let me know if it is there? And if you see my trash men, could you ask them if they have seen a pink DS? If there is anything I am supposed to do that you know I did not write down, could you please send me a note?