Organize Me

I can’t remember shit.  I think it started when I was pregnant with my first, but then again, I can’t remember.  I recall saying things like, “It’s just mommy brain.” or “It’ll come back when I’m not growing another human inside of me.”  (looking at my watch and tapping my foot impatiently) It hasn’t come back.
I swear a little piece of my brain power left the building when they took out each placenta after the birth of my two daughters and a little more when they took out my boobs.  I am so bad about responding to emails, I cannot remember appointments unless they are in my calendar and two reminders are set, and I forget the simplest to-do’s unless I’ve written them down.  I forgot to buy eggs at the supermarket the other day… and I went solely for eggs and milk.  What the fuck!  I’m beyond frustrated.
I bought my mom the book I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron as a Valentine’s gift.  The first line said something about it all starting in her thirties.  My point to Mom is… see, it’s not an age thing.  I’m not lying to you when I say I’m forgetting the same stuff you are.  It’s not just to make you feel better.  You had four kids, they could have possibly taken a little bit more out of you with the additional two placentas, but you still have your boobs, so maybe we’re even?  I don’t know.
I do remember a simpler time… say, high school? I had my filofax with every subject accounted for with each nightly homework assignment, my dance schedules outlined so I knew when I could complete the schoolwork along with my rehearsals, my cheerleading practice and game schedules, club activities and responsibilities, etc. I was uber-organized and I don’t use uber lightly (German should always be taken seriously).  Heck, even at my wedding, the event coordinator at the hotel almost laughed when she saw my two clear plastic bins with all of the wedding paraphernalia needed to carry out the day and  my instructions which were typed out, including pictures.  I long for my former self in the organizational arena.
Today, you can barely walk into the room we call an “office” (that’s a light term if I’ve ever used one).  My closet looks like a bomb went off (I think my husband secretly relishes the fact that I’ve become so loosey goosey and enjoys tossing his underwear next to the hamper instead of in it, because I really can’t say much about it without being labeled a hypocrite).  I’m constantly trying to stay on top of the disaster areas of playroom, laundry, and snack cabinet, but to no avail.  Just when I think I’ve got it under control, more stuff enters the house and starts piling up again. Like most challenges of this nature (ie. somewhat trivial), I need to take a deep breath and tackle one thing at a time.  I need to try not to derail my efforts by doing little bits here and there, but stick with a project, finish it and then maintain it.  I will make a list so I don’t forget what these tasks are (and I might buy a filofax again if I can figure out a way to sync it to my iPhone – Old Me, meet New Me. She needs your help. Organize Me!).

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