Inherited Forgetfulness

My mom was really good at forgetting things. Super good at it. In another sense she was good at remembering things falsely.

She frequently lost her purse. Or glasses. Or keys. She never remembered her passwords. Ever. Even with a password keeper on her phone it caused her an insane amount of stress. She also struggled to comprehend financial life planning – unemployment, retirement, social security, etc. She benefitted from hearing things seven or eight times. And she was always confused about Daylight Savings Time. Seriously, every six months we had to revisit which way the clocks should change.

As for me… I have inherited this forgetfulness and today was a prime example.

Today is the last day of school and I am proud to say that James and I biked to and from school together and Miles not only is NOT flunking his classes, but he has no D’s either (a pretty huge accomplishment for an indifferent teenager). Our deal was that if Miles finished the semester with A’s, B’s and maybe a couple C’s, we would reward him with a PS4.

After eating lunch, I took him to get this said PS4. We spent a long time looking at games and chatting it up with the kind GameStop lady.

Then came the purchase.

And my card was nowhere to be found…

Now, if you know me, you know that my purse can be an endless abyss of stuff – kleenex, blocks, pens, socks, snacks, papers… I could probably pull a Mary Poppins lamp out of there one of these days. So, I went to my car and frantically pulled all this crap out of my purse to look through all the places it might hide. It wasn’t there.

I searched the glove box, the console, the floor, my work bag… and over again. It wasn’t there.

Feeling embarrassed and frustrated with myself, I went back into the store to announce that we could not purchase it because I did not have my card. She agreed to hold them for us until we got back. James and Miles were a bit disappointed – but this is not the first time I have gone to purchase something and not had my card…

We arrived at home and I promptly searched all the regular places: jean pockets, bathroom drawer, bedside drawer, kitchen drawer, really all the damn drawers in the house. Then I re-searched my car. No luck. I took everything out of my purse – all the kleenex, piles of papers, old receipts, a container of granola, a used spoon, and six pairs of socks. The card was nowhere to be found. Miles supported my search and helped me search my car for a THIRD time. It wasn’t there.

Feeling defeated, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down. In my purse search I found two Target gift cards (score!) and started calling to see if there was anything left of them. Finding myself 15 dollars richer, I opened my wallet to put them in.

And there it was.

Staring at me.


My card.

It was there in my wallet all along. I had looked. I had shuffled papers around to see. But in my flurry of mom-ness, I missed it.

Silently I held it up and showed Miles. We had a good laugh about finding it in my wallet and of all the bizarre contents of my purse. And now we’ll head back to reclaim our purchase. And I will make sure I have my card before we leave the house.

This experience happens more often than I would like to admit. And I would always call my mom and share these details. She knew what this was like – the frustration of having lost something or not understanding something, the embarrassment that accompanies it, and also the humor that follows.

I love all the things I took from my mom – except for this trait. But now it holds a special meaning. I get to roll my eyes at myself for my forgetfulness and think about all the humor my mom added to my life because of hers.

Thanks mama, for my inherited forgetfulness.

One thought on “Inherited Forgetfulness

  1. I love your sense of humor – you genuinely laugh at things that would make me cry! FYI, my pocketbooks have always functioned more as classy garbage cans than anything else. I finally got disgusted with the whole idea, and now I buy pants with enough pockets to put: my wallet, my cellphone, my keys and a few Kleenex. Freedom!

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