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I used to consider myself reasonably intelligent. I spoke in complete sentences. I went to college. I even could answer questions on Jeopardy—at least during "Teen Week."
Then I had kids. Oh, the warning signs had been there. I'd watched friends have babies, then kiss their brains good-bye—as though their intellect had been carried away with the placenta. My mother even tried to warn me in her own subtle way. As a teenager, I'd stare at her in disbelief (as only a teenager can) and say, "When, exactly, did you lose your mind, Mom?"
She'd calmly reply, "Oh, somewhere around May, 1971." I knew, of course, that was my birth month. But surely she was referring to her distress over the Nixon Administration!
Several years later and a dozen IQ points ago, my husband and I, blinded to the warnings, decided to procreate. And true to the nature of God's laws, I subsequently lost my marbles.
I suppose it isn't so much the fact I can now barely answer the questions on Sesame Street, let alone Jeopardy. And it doesn't really bother me I've forgotten to buy aluminum foil the last 37 times I've been to the grocery store, even though 18 of those times that was the very reason I went.
What bothers me most is one shameful, inexplicable brain malfunction that seems to rest on motherhood like a curse: I cannot remember my children's names.
Oh, sure. I remember them right now. That's because my children are, at this moment, sleeping. The problem is when the children are:
A: awake, and
B: in my presence.
That's when I have no idea what their names are. Or more specifically, I know the names; I just don't know to whom they belong.
My husband and I named our three precious sons Caleb, Jonah, and Silas. How difficult can these relatively easy names be?
Besides, there are only three of them. One would think I have at least a 33 percent chance of calling out the right name. But somehow I always manage to call out, either in whole or in part, the wrong name.
It usually goes something like this:
"Hey, Jo, uh, Cal, uh, Si, uh, what's your name again? Well, whomever you are, come here."
My seven-year-old Caleb, uh … um, yeah, that's it, recently asked me, "Mom, why can't you ever remember my name?"
I smiled warmly at him and answered, "Honey, I love you with all my heart. I would lay down my life for you. It's just that sometimes, I don't know which one you are."
He'll be in therapy for the better part of his life.
My only solace is the fact I'm not alone. My husband is one of four children, and I haven't heard my mother-in-law call any one of them by the right name since the late '80s. She even throws in the dog's name every now and then.
I have a friend who named all four of her children names starting with "J." When she brings these children over to play at my house, the real fun begins. Add a generous portion of Jessica, Joshua, Jacob, and Jamie to a solid chunk of Jonah, and mix well. In about 40 minutes, you have 8 servings of confusion.
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