Whatever works. Do that.

receipt


"Angie, will you pick up my dry cleaning?" Shawn asked a couple of weeks ago. "Yeah, sure, no problem," I replied, half-way listening.

"I mean, really, you can't forget. If I don't have those clothes I'm screwed."

My husband is quite the liberated man. He doesn't expect me to be his errand girl, but on this particular day, he couldn't get to the cleaners before they closed, and he was headed to Los Angeles for 7 days. Being the fashionista that he is, Shawn can't travel to the west coast on business without his LA-approved wardrobe. It's against his religion.

"Okay," I said snapping to attention and trying to funnel the request to the place in my brain that never forgets. "Well, you should tape the receipt to my steering wheel."

He did it without question.

Right now, I have what a lot of people dismiss as baby brain. Meaning, all the blood is flowing to the baby instead of my head. And while I'm happy to use that as an excuse, forgetfulness is my general state of being. I can remember a million details about my childhood, but my short term memory? Not so much. But according to my husband, my brain's tendency to short-circuit magnifies when I'm pregnant.

Take for example, the time I was pregnant with Dillon. After meeting a friend at Rue de Jean one afternoon, I walked back to King Street to get my car. And I arrived at the intersection of King and John just in time — to watch my black hatchback whizzing down the street.

On the back of a tow truck.

Two hours earlier, when I applauded myself for my amazing ability to score a parking spot on the street, I hadn't realized I blocked a driveway. Thank goodness for the nice police officers who drove me to the city PD to pay my ticket. Dear Shawn was not so understanding. He was fuming when he arrived and almost blew his lid when we had to pay a hundred bucks to get my car out of the tow lot.

He didn't understand. Now, he does.

Perhaps it clicked when I was pregnant with Blake. After a trip to Publix, I left groceries in the trunk until the following morning.  I completely forgot they were there. It was one of those small "in-between" trips to store, but everything I bought needed to be refrigerated or frozen: milk, popsicles, a bag of broccoli. Straight to the trash. I was sick over it.

But Shawn said, calmly, "Maybe next time you should put the groceries in the front seat?"

This time around, I'm doing much better. I've had my moments, but none as costly as the incidents I've confessed here today. And I'm happy to report I made it to the cleaners. In fact, I had a conversation with the receipt: "Don't let me forget. Don't let me forget." The receipt rallied and supported me in my mission to remember. And Shawn got to rock LA in style. All is right with the world.

So glad I could be there for you, babe.

Do you have a good memory? Or are you a if-I-don't-write-it-down-I-will-forget kind of person?