What Am I, Pregnant?

Yet the memory thing rages out of control, as it did when I was in the ninth month and finding my cell phone in the refrigerator and my wallet in the piano bench. Actually, I found my cell phone in the fridge last week, too—and I couldn’t blame it on T. And today, for another instance, I purchased $60 worth of vital items at Toys R Us, including a talking book T was all rabid for. Then I drove off and left the bag of said items in the shopping cart. Upon returning home and placing my snoozing babe in his crib, I realized my error and phoned the store. No bag had been turned in. No bag could be located anywhere. Somebody made off with my goods. Bye-bye talking book. Ciao, $60.

And yesterday I left the cinnamon rolls for the playdate on top of the minivan. As I drove away, they sailed for climes unknown, where they are drinking icy pinot grigio, casually melting into (tasteful) modern art and sharing a good old cinnamon roll guffaw at my expense.

And last night I dreamed I couldn’t find my baby. I woke up hyperventilating, my husband’s worried face in mine. It seems my current streak of forgetting is even penetrating my dream-life. Why???

I asked this question of the gruffish lady checking my groceries this morning, as I ransacked my purse for coupons I’d forgotten to grab from the kitchen counter before leaving home. She glanced at T in the shopping cart sucking blissfully on an enormous piece of fresh baguette. The gruffish lady shrugged and replied, “Him. He’s why.”

Oh, I love my baby. I love going over the replacement talking book I bought for him as he sits on my lap, my nostrils deep in blonde locks reeking of the tomato sauce he patted into his hair at lunch, my arms around his little tubby tummy. I will never lose him, never find myself running screaming around a park searching for him frantically. He is responsible for making me not just hugely, but profoundly happy. Yeah. “Him.”

Take that, Memory, and sleep on it.

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