My mother isn’t known for having the best memory. If I told her something yesterday, I’ll no doubt have to repeat myself today. This goes with dates as well. Even growing up, she would get our birthdays confused. My brother’s is on the 22nd, mine on the 27th of different months, but I’ve had to correct her more often than I can count over the years. In truth, I was always a little put-off by this. If my mom can remember wheres she was when Elvis died, shouldn’t she know the moment her children entered the world? Maybe I’m biased, but shouldn’t there have been rainbows shining and hearts bursting and birds singing to mark the occasion?
I was making an appointment for the kids’ well-child checkups. The receptionist was looking up Abby’s file first, by birthdate. July 26, 2008 is what I told her.
After looking for a few seconds, she relayed, “I don’t see her here.”
We’ve been going to this pediatrician since Abby was a newborn. I know she’s there. I let her look for a few more seconds before I realized. Did I? I didn’t, did I? The 26th is Buzz’s birthday, in April. Abby’s is the 24th. Isn’t it? I even found myself wishing I had their birth certificates in front of me.
“Um, I think I gave you the wrong day. Try July 24th, 2008.”
“Yep, there she is.”
I’m sorry, Mom. I get it know. I see many long years ahead of getting these two days utterly confused. Abby and Buzz, I apologize in advance. I do love you both very much, there may have even been birds singing when you were born, but motherhood has made my brain shrivel.