So every time I call up the doc to make an appointment for a sick kiddo the gal asks me what their birth date is. And every time I draw a complete blank for 2.3 seconds and respond with an, “uh…” and then fumble for the correct year. Even when I have to verify the boys’ birth dates to the insurance company or pharmacy, I ruin my good intention to have committed those dates to long-term memory.
Does this happen to any of you? Today, I even forgot my own birth date. The data points are all floating around in my brain; they’re all in there, but not at all connected and the months don’t indicate the days and certainly not the year.
Not that I don’t remember every detail of their births. The events leading up to getting to the hospital, the adrenaline rush of knowing that no matter how scared you are of childbirth, there’s no turning back, and that moment of pure joy and excitement when the nurses hand you a slimy, ugly, gooey little alien figure who is truly the most beautiful, heavenly creature you’ve ever laid eyes on.
I remember that moment of silence when everyone in the room loses their breaths and gasps in unison when the baby is delivered and Joel’s wonder-struck expression as he laid eyes on his son for the first time. He’s unbelievably proud of a little boy who has only taken his first breath. Look, you can see it in his eyes:
And the tears that welled up in my eyes that I tried to brush away so I wouldn’t lose focus on my precious little peanut’s face. Hearing that first little cry, furiously counting to check for all 10 fingers and toes and watching Joel take charge with the baby’s care and my care because I’m sure my glazed over look indicated epidural high.
Nothing in the world comes close to those moments.
Now if I could only remember the exact day and year that those memories and moments happened, I wouldn’t look like such a fool as I try so hard to remember those silly numbers when people ask me: date of birth?!
See how I’ve cleverly inserted dates above? That’s my little cheat sheet.