Kali J Desautels

Sometimes I forget things. I forget where I put my keys. I forget where I put my purse. I forget to gas up my car. I forget to download the music for my daughter’s dance class. I forget to sign my kids up for field trips. I forget to go grocery shopping. I forget to tell anyone that company will be over. I forget a load of laundry in the washing machine. I forget which day of the week it is.

My kids were very small when they told me I was a very good forgetter. I am not the mommy who is good at being on time, or having homemade cookies, or a tidy house. I am the mommy who is good at forgetting.

Sometimes the things I forget are not a big deal. Sometimes the things I forget are not going to make much difference to anyone but me. But sometimes, the things I forget are problematic. Sometimes they cause inconvenience or hurt or anger. So I forget things, and then the things that I forgot become things that I feel guilty about having forgotten. Sometimes the things I forget smack me in the face.

I remember vividly when I have forgotten. I remember the fear of turning a corner on a run in my own neighbourhood and being utterly confused. I forgot where I was. I remember clearly the guilt I felt when I remembered that I forgot to send cupcakes to my kids’ classes for their birthdays this year. I forgot that that was something I should have done. I remember the lightening bolt of panic when I remembered that I forgot that I had taken the same university course already and that my ability to graduate was in jeopardy. I forgot to check my courses thoroughly.

Sometimes I agree to things or make plans and I forgot that I have already made plans. Sometimes I have to apologize for double booking myself and for any disappointment or hurt that I have caused by my forgetting. Sometimes I do not want to face the consequences of my remembering that I forgot. Sometimes I want to forget what I remembered that I forgot, just to avoid dealing with what results.

I do not like forgetting. But sometimes the things that I want to forget will not be forgotten, and the things that I want to remember will not come back. I will never forget hearing the doctor diagnose my husband with cancer. I will never forget the moment that I realized that my Grampa has breathed his last breath. I will never forget the look on my daughter’s face when I lost my temper and yelled at her over something minor. I will never forget the feeling of sliding to the floor and crying when I was told my father needed open heart surgery. I will never forget crying on Christmas Day, in bed at 7 years old because I was moving away from my loved ones. These things would be better left locked in the attic of memory, where the due dates and birthday gifts that I forgot to buy are hidden; instead, I forgot what it sounded like when my Grampa would chuckle or play some sort of “instrument” by blowing out his cheeks while driving and humming. I forgot what it felt like to have my babies placed on my chest at birth. I forget what it felt like to walk down the aisle to my husband-to-be. I forget the precise weight of my babies on my hip. I forget the last time that I petted my first cat.

Sometimes I forget the things that I are important and focus on the less important. Sometimes I forget that my kids will not be kids forever, and that I need to enjoy them bickering in the backseat because one day they won’t be together in the backseat at all.

Sometimes I forget things. Sometimes I really wish that I wouldn’t. It has taken me all of my life to get to the point where if I have forgotten something to simply acknowledge it and accept the consequences. I am a recovering people pleaser. I will always be a recovering people pleaser, even if I go into remission for decades. I will always be fighting the gnawing urge to be everything to everyone, and to never disappoint anyone, no matter what.

Sometimes I forget things. Sometimes I wish wouldn’t. Sometimes I wish that I could remember everything pleasant and nothing sad, but then I remember that if I only remembered pleasant things, they would not be as pleasant, with nothing to compare them to. Even still, I wish I was a good person, a good mother, a good wife, a good writer instead of a good forgetter.

If remembering tells us who we are, then forgetting keeps us sane. If we recalled every song we’d ever heard, every touch we’d ever felt, every pain no matter how small, every sadness no matter how petty, every joy no matter how selfish, we could surely lose our minds.