I don’t have any tattoos, but I think that’s about to change.  June starts pre-school in just a couple of weeks, and I was super excited that the pre-school gods had smiled upon me and my friends and had blessedly arranged it so all of us were at home with our kids on the same day.  A mom’s group miracle!  Play dates for everyone!  Perhaps a trip or two to a museum!  The possibilities were endless!  Or so I thought.

Maybe Morticia Adams named her daughter “Wednesday” so she would remember what day to pick her up from daycare.

June is going to pre-school in a very part-time fashion, so I’m supplementing with one day of daycare, and some quality mom time too – (I’m still very much an ad hoc MOM), so I carefully mapped out which days she went where on my calendar with different colored ink to avoid any possible confusion.  So imagine my surprise when I got a confirmation email from June’s daycare confirming a completely different day than I had inked out in bright fuchsia ink.  Not only was I sad about play dates lost – but seriously, how could I not know which day my kid goes where?  Am I one step away from being the mom who forgets to pick up their kid at school?  The very next day, my husband asked me what time our flight left for a trip we were taking later this Fall.  I realized I had no idea, so I checked my calendar like any organized super mom.  Nothing but a big fat blank page started back at me.  So it seems I bought some plane tickets, failed to write down the date and time of our trip, didn’t bother to write down any confirmation number, nor did I note which airline we were taking.  I was pretty sure I bought tickets – or did I?  I mean, I don’t know which days I take care of my own kid.  And by the way, what exactly was wrong with ACTUAL PLANE TICKETS?  I can’t help but think receiving a real plane ticket would have saved me a) one near heart attack b) one hour spent trying to convince myself I don’t have super early onset Alzheimer’s and c) another hour digging through credit card statements for proof that I did in fact book our damn trip.

What’s next. . . leaving the house in my underwear?  Picking up the wrong kid at daycare?  Forgetting where I live?  I better get to the tattoo parlor right quick – lest I forget, once again, exactly what it was I needed to do on Wednesday to begin with.

P.S. It’s 8:40 p.m. and my family has just finished a dinner of takeout pizza (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but guess who got to the grocery store, did her shopping, only to discover SHE LEFT HER WALLET AT HOME IN THE DAMN DIAPER BAG?  Yeah, that would be me.  Aces!