I forget more than I remember now. My buddy Jackie had to remind me of the time my back right tire was stolen clean off my car. While sitting parked outside my rental suite, in a “safe” residential area. (I’d pay some good cash to see my face that morning as I put that car in drive and was met with a grinding thump so foreign I literally did 1,000 internal double takes.) How did I forget that? And then three days ago I was making a grocery list and blanked on the name for laundry detergent. My frustrated replacement? Clothing fluid. Oh brain, you holey SOB.
My memory now is like your windshield when snow first gently falls and coats it like a sticky fluffy veil, and then the wipers hit and smear it clear. That’s my brain tenuously holding onto soooomething, then voom, gone. I need to start recording everything or my eulogy will be a small cue card that says “1977, Mayonnaise, Doritos, Nuv, Cried Hard At The Beginning Of ‘Up’ No Matter How Many Times She Saw It, Stella, The End.”
We were given a beautiful baby book by one of my co-workers before bubs came. I thumbed through it during the two weeks I was off work and waiting for Little Miss Take her Goddamn Time To Crown, and filled out some of the stuff. Some of the questions I found inane. Cost of a vacation? Well, I’ve slept in the backseat of a humid car on a “vacation,” and had a musical bidet clean my asshole beautifully on a vacation. Both were wildly different in price. So, what do you put? How about, “Vacation? Oh right. That thing we could afford to do before you were born.”
Really though, this book is not for us. And not for right now. Fifty years down the line when it’s hauled out of a musty trunk, the eyes that will be carefully scanning each page will find this sh*t interesting. So, I sucked up my sarcastic impulses and tried filling it out to the best of my abilities. Then the kid was born and idle time to sit and sip a cup of tea and uncap a pen and fill out something became obsolete.
But on Nuv’s urging, knowing how sh*t my memory is, and how we need to record stuff like the day she first laughed hard at being karate chopped in the armpits by Pops, we dragged it down off the shelf and started filling stuff in. I think I had my arms full of eating baby so Nuv started to pen the missing details in. Then he second-guessed something. So we got the white-out pen out. Cue him an hour later swearing and cutting out small strips of paper to tape down on top of lumpy white-outed details, and then the temperature in the room raised 50 degrees and he ripped the page he was on so that we’d have to buy a new book because f*ck this book, f*ck this malfunctioning white-out and f*ck only giving two small lines to list “Daddy’s Friends” because he has, like, 700 of them.
So, now I’m on the hunt for a new book. They’re expensive. Like, stupid money. $65. And missing so much. Like the date you first got to insert a suppository up the kid’s butthole and watch the gorgeous soft serve flow of poop come cascading out and threaten to flood the bedroom. And sure, it asks how much a jug of milk is, but where is the page to record the evening I made Nuv strap on the Baby Bjorn, even though he just wanted to run out to the store quickly, but I wanted a Happy Nerd Family Walkfest, so I got her affixed to him, took a picture, then 2.2 seconds later she simultaneously started to freak out and vomit on the lapels of his favourite jacket, and he said to me in a low tired voice, “I have no interest in this.” That page, my friends, is nowhere to be found.