Lost; one brain

The Potty household was in crisis yesterday morning. Or rather, I was. I was lost, ruderless, up a nasty brown creek without a paddle. I was compass-less, I had mislaid my charts, I had no idea which way was up or down. What caused this shocking state of affairs?

I lost my diary.

Now, pre-children, this would have been no biggie. I would have been working, for starters, so all the important stuff would have been duplicated on Outlook in the office. And - rather more relevantly - I would still have had some kind of a memory. But post-kids? Memory? I'm sure I should know what that is, but you know, I've kind of... what's the word again... oh yes. Forgotten.

Sometimes it feels as if the grey matter in my head, which used to be, if not razor sharp then at least capable of inflicting a nasty graze, has just turned into a sludgy, porridge-like mess that is no use to man nor beast. Think treacle, and you'll have some idea of how quickly my thought processes work on occassion. It's normal, apparantly, post children, to feel like this. And I do remember that after Boy #1 was born I felt very similar. Crucially though, I went back to work between kids, which forced me to sharpen up rather more than I've had to since paid employment went by the wayside after Boy #2 arrived.

Nowadays things can literally go in one ear and straight out of the other. Not everything (Husband, in case you're reading this, of course I remember every conversation we ever had, and if I claim you haven't told me something then of course you haven't...), but if we're talking fine details, like dates and times, then forget it. Literally.

For example, I will remember that Boys #1 or #2 have a doctors or dentists appointment coming up soon. But when? What day? Where? Who knows... Or, a playdate. I can tell you there will probably be a playdate sometime this week. But will it be here? Will I need to provide dinner for the chosen friend? What time will their mummy be collecting them? Anyway, you get the picture. I have to write it down to remember it.

So, when I realised late on Monday night that I couldn't find my diary, I had a bit of a panic, to put it mildly. I hunted everywhere. I looked in my handbag. I looked in the nappy bag. I looked in every room in the house (which I'm ashamed to admit did include my cherub's bedrooms - with a torch, though, not the light on. Because turning the light on to hunt for something in the middle of the night in your child's bedroom would be crazy, right? Unlike crawling around on your hands and knees with a torch in your mouth as you rifle through the toy chest...). I checked in the car, the boot of the car, my gym rucksack, and cupboards that hadn't been opened in months. In brief, I resembled nothing so much as Olivia in 'Olivia and the Missing Toy' (if you don't have this book for your kids, check it out, it's hilarious, especially the look on her mummy's face when her daddy promises to buy her a new best toy. Then again - you probably know that expression already...). Then, when I had looked everywhere, I looked again. And still I couldn't find it.

The next morning I woke in the foulest of moods and my darling Husband promised to help me look. He looked in all the places I had looked - and then, just to make sure, I looked again. Still, no diary.

Now, whilst all this was going on, I was fighting the natural inclination any mother has. The default mechanism that arrives when the baby starts to crawl, and only strengthens when they begin to walk. The inclination to blame the children. Because, let's face it, a small silver-coloured book with empty pages perfect for drawing on has to be a Boy magnet, doesn't it? But there was no evidence of foul play from the Boys, and Boy #1 swore blind when questioned that he hadn't touched the diary, hadn't seen the diary, in fact what was a diary, and could he have television now?

I relented and started to think the diary was lost for ever. Which of course put me in an even fouler mood. And the realisation that this was JUST A DIARY for CHRISSAKE!.. didn't really help. Social ostracisation due to missed birthdays, dinners and playdates, blackballing by the nursery due to failed appearances at parents evening, not to mention being refused entry to the doctors, dentists, hairdressers due to non-attendances at appointments, loomed.

So when Husband finally found the blasted thing tucked under the sofa (which I had checked, I hasten to add), I was relieved, delighted, thankful and embarrassed at having been so worked up about the whole thing.

And, of course, justified. I knew it had been the Boys - all along.



Now - before you disappear to much more entertaining blogs, take a look at this link (courtesy of Alpha Mum), and if there is a man in your life you will laugh your socks off. Particularly watch out for the reference to the 'man with a hurty knee'...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mz6DktXFvg4