You know what’s weird? My memory sucks when it comes to my kids names when I need to call out to them (HEY YOU! YOU RIGHT THERE! THAT I GAVE BIRTH TO! WITH THE HAIR! C’MERE!), or remembering the car keys (because, y’know, locking yourself out the house is a fun way to spend an afternoon when your husband works a half-hour away), nor am I great at remembering to eat (Oh. It’s 2:30. Maybe I should eat something?).
But when it comes to lost crap around the house? I AM A FREAKING JEDI MASTER.
Like, I know where ALL of it is. Just by seeing it once around the house. I’m seemingly the master and commander of ALL the lost stuff in the house.
For instance, my husband needed to tether down the new “Kid Wash” he made for my kids yesterday (details to come soon). “Babe? Where’s my missing twine?”
And, without batting an eyelash, I recalled with specificity that came out of my hindside. “Oh, it’s in your Army box in the garage. Remember that second Tuesday in April when you redid your awards and filed them away with our oldest son helping? And you were wearing a blue t-shirt and you asked me if I remembered going to dinner with that guy Smith from work? Yeah, while you were organizing, I saw that twine on the floor next to your combat medals.”
My husband’s jaw bounced off the floor and hit him in the gonads.
Once I realized what had just come out of my mouth, I think my jaw joined his jaw, and double-ninja-kicked him in the crotch. I don’t know. I can’t remember because MY JAW ISN’T LOST, and apparently I CAN’T REMEMBER ANYTHING UNLESS IT’S LOST AND NEEDS TO BE FOUND.
Dude. I am the Lost Things Whisperer. “Mom? Where’s my cleats?”
“They’re in the bathtub honey.” AND THEY WERE.
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Fear me. Or, just ask me where your missing crap is. I might know where yours is, too. (Just don’t ask me what I ate for breakfast. Not only did I probably forget to eat, I’d probably forget WHAT I ate, if I ate it. Ahem.)
*cue Twilight Zone music*
