You know how every year or so the treasury department will run a list of names in the newspaper of people who have money they forgot about?
First off, let's just clarify: this doesn't happen to me. Or my husband... or my siblings. In 41 years the best I could hope for is the occasional quarter in the couch cushion, if I'm really lucky the lost $5 bill recovered from the pocket of last year's winter coat. More likely though, I'm the person you're stuck behind at the drive-thru scouring my car for the last nickle I need to pay for my morning coffee.
What does happen to me is the occasional recovered memory - it's not de je vous, but some weird synapse that has refused to function for a week - day - sometimes years.
We all have these moments. Sometimes it's noticeable, because you've spent all day trying to recall a movie, song, actor - only to have the answer suddenly arrive at 2am as you are drifting off to sleep. These struggles and recalls don't really bother me. Usually these are things that I really didn't ever need to remember - but more importantly - things I didn't want to remember.
But cash? Have you ever seen these published lists? There are people who have "forgotten" something upwards of a few grand. If I misplace so much as a $20, you can bet I'm going through every pocket on every pair of pants I own.
My recalled memories are of this second sort: I can't believe I've forgotten them. These are the gems that, as a mom, people tell you "I hope you're writing these down." to which you respond "Of course I am." But being a slacker mom - I'm totally not.
So now - when one comes to me, I'm going to post it here - whatever I remember, how accurate it is - how old it was...
I'm gonna make the memory bank real again.
My first withdrawl:
8 or 9 months ago, shortly after Nick started his new school, he came home one day and - with full audience of mom and dad sitting in the family room his tiny 3 year-old voice announces:
"I want some damn raisins."
Now, to our credit, neither of us laughed out loud or shrieked at him. A couple of jaws hit the ground, but in my version of the story we were quick to recover and I very calmly said:
"I didn't hear you Nick, what did you say?"
He didn't miss a beat: "I want some damn raisins."
Thank you daddy - who dropped his chin to his chest and covered his snicker, leaving me to fend for myself.
"Nick, I don't think I know what kind of raisins those are. Can you tell me what that word means?"
"Yes. It means 'raisins' in Spanish."
"No, it doesn't. Don't say it again."
You know, I can't remember if he ever got his raisins.
