I love my parents. I really love my parents, but I don’t want to be them. I have always wanted to just be me. It seems that inheriting some traits is unavoidable or, we look to connect certain traits to our families.
Green eyes: all of us. Curly hair: dad and me. Warped sense of humour: dad, one sister and me. Blonde hair: sisters and mom(?).
Well it seems I’ve inherited a new trait and this one really disturbs me. My mom has a bad memory. Which is kind of like saying the Empire State Building is tall. I have always been proud of my memory. Although it pales in comparison to my eldest sister it has served me well. I never needed shopping lists, if I met you once I could tell you where and when (although not the exact date). I noticed this ability begin to leave me after the Artiste was born. Everyone said, of course you’re forgetful you’re sleep deprived. Then we moved away to a new city where every person I met became someone new to remember. I no longer laughed at my husband’s constant list making. He’ll now kindly ask me if I want him to enter something into his Blackberry along with a reminder. I’ve learned to say thank you and appreciate this little technology. I also keep a paper day timer in my purse as well as a calendar in the kitchen. I am very aware that I will forget who is on what punishment. “What do you mean I don’t get to use the computer today, what did I do?” O.K. I get my limitations, but the other night at dinner during a heated discussion the Artiste looked at me and stated with great frustration, “You have the worst memory. You always say things and then forget that you said them.”
I fear he’s right, but unless he reads this he’ll never hear it from me.