These Are the Days

The last  important date I can remember with any kind of certainty is March 21, 1998.  At some point in the afternoon  of that day I was wheeled on a hospital gurney into surgery, and  in a shockingly brief period of time, I had two babies. I don’t remember much about the rest of that day, but I did hear later that I asked the anesthesiologist if he would marry me because he and his drugs were just so nice.
    Having twins is certainly enough to make even the sanest individual go outside her mind. But for me? It was something more. It was something more because most women, as I understand it, remember a lot of things. Things like birthdays and anniversaries and when little Sallie June got her first tooth. They remember the day their grandma died and if there were butterbeans at the visitation and maybe even what kind of dress their cousin wore because, bless her heart, she looked like such a tramp. They remember, probably, things like the exact day their husband smiled at them for the first time, the first gas bubble their second baby had and the day they paid off their Toyota Corolla.
    I? Am lucky to remember what I had for dinner last night.
    At this moment, clipped into the front of my day planner, there is an elaborately detailed list of where, exactly, my children will be each and every day of the entire summer. Without it I have no doubt that one day I would show up at the wrong place to pick up my children and then everyone would know that I’m the most jacked-up mother on the planet. And maybe I am, but I certainly don’t want other people to know it. Can you imagine the whispers? The stares? It would be just like the time my daughter said the word “penis” in the grocery store and this little boy, who was knuckle deep into his own nose, said to his mother, loudly, “SHE SAID PENIS,” and then the mother who was approximately 45 years old and wearing a pink T-shirt that said “Little Slut” in glitter on the front teamed with a pair of pajama pants that had clearly seen better days said, “Some people ain’t got no sense!”
    I don’t think she even knew why I was laughing.
    My husband (who I married on July 12, 2003 … I just looked at our marriage certificate to confirm this!) is, surprisingly, much better at remembering dates than I am. In spite of a brain injury that he suffered in his early 20s that basically obliterated his short-term memory, he can easily rattle off the day of our wedding anniversary, my birthday, his mom’s birthday and, if pressed, when we got our dog, Ginger. However, he asks me every single year, “What day is Christmas again?” and has on more than one occasion queried, “What’s my sister’s last name?” I tell him fascinating stories about the fiber content of the cereal he eats, and two days later he tells me the exact same story as though he was the one who thought of it. And Lord knows I’d have to call the newspaper if he ever remembered to put the toilet seat down because that, in itself, would be an event to behold.
    It’s funny what we choose to remember.
    I cannot tell you the anniversary of the day I was officially divorced from my first husband, a loathsome individual who suddenly “remembered” when I was about 10 weeks pregnant with my twins that he had actually never loved me in the first place. However, I can tell you with great clarity how I felt when I was sitting in that courtroom, completely alone, and the judge asked my now-ex-husband for the birthdates of his two children. When he responded, “I don’t know,” I felt the most profound mixture of sadness and disgust and … relief. Absolute relief. I knew at that moment that the divorce was the right thing to do. All doubt was gone and with it? Hope was able to arrive.
    I don’t know what day it was. But still, I remember.
    I don’t remember the exact date my children first went to kindergarten. I remember the month and the year, and I (maybe?) took a snapshot to commemorate the event. I remember a lot of sobbing and crying and blubbering until finally the kids were like, “Mom! It’s fine! Get back in the car! It’s just school!”
    I remember that moment. I knew right then it would all go entirely too fast. And it has.
    Every now and then I’ll look at the calendar and think, “Today is important for some reason.” And if pressed, I can usually recall why — my parents wedding anniversary, the day that my dad was diagnosed with cancer, the day I graduated college. All of these are important events, and they all mean something. They all mean a lot.
    But mostly? I just don’t worry about what the day on the calendar says. Frankly, I can’t put much faith in a system that allows the years to fly by with lightening speed when dealing with my growing children and crawl at a snail’s pace while I am on the treadmill. It’s just unfair.
    Instead, I choose to think about the moments that we’re living right now. I choose to think about how beautiful my daughter is, with her dark, shiny hair. (I don’t remember when it went from blonde to dark, but it suits her.) I think about my son’s eyes and how glad I am that glasses enable him to see, even though I don’t exactly remember how old he was when he got them. I don’t remember the exact day I got my dog, but I remember the hole in my heart that she effortlessly filled with just one swish of her big, brown tail. I cannot recall the day my husband first told me “I love you,” but I feel it every single day of my life. That security and knowledge is worth more to me than any anniversary flowers or even diamond rings (not that I would protest either of those, mind you).
    So, the children’s pediatrician may hate me with the white-hot passion of 1,000 burning suns because I can never recall when they had certain shots. So what?
    I remember the things that matter, FTD not required.