I have been somewhat absent-minded for more of my adult life. It started with my first pregnancy, something the doctor and prenatal instructor called "maternal amnesia". It was caused by pregnancy hormones, they said, and it would go away when the baby was born.
Ha.
Moreover, I seem to have passed it on to my son. (Which would seem to cast doubt on the whole 'pregnancy' part of it.)
Adam is hugely absent-minded. Part of this is because he lives on a slightly different plane than the rest of us, but much of it is genetics, I'm sure. Knowing myself to be the source, and (more to the point) commiserating with the resistance of one's absent-mindedness to one's most diligent efforts to overcome it, I am patient with him. I don't protect him from such consequences of his forgetfulness as come his way, but I don't get annoyed with him, either.
Mostly.
Today is garbage day. It's Adam's job to get the bins from the back porch to the curb. Every Thursday night, in time for Friday pick-up. Without fail. Predictable things are harder to forget. Even I remember garbage day.
This week's is more complicated than usual (and thus easier to remember) because we are tossing a defunct dryer. Adam and I spent a half-hour yesterday afternoon clearing the path and man-handling it to the base of the basement stairs, awaiting the husband's return, so the two men could man-handle it up the stairs and to the curb after supper.
After supper, however, Adam gets a call. A bunch of friends are going skating on the canal. What a happy, wholesome, healthy activity for a bunch of happy, wholesome, healthy young adults. I glow happily at the very thought of such wholesome-ness.
"Have fun!"
We both forget the garbage.
The dryer, waiting its removal at the base of the stairs, reminds me a couple of hours later. Damn. And the husband is already in bed.
I phone Adam.
"We forgot the dryer."
"Damn."
"That's what I said. Don't sweat it. It can sit there another week. Just make sure you get the rest of the stuff out."
"Sure. I'll be home within a couple of hours."
"A couple of hours" means I'll be in bed, of course, so it's not till the next morning that I peek between the blinds on my bedroom window and see...
... nothing. There are no bins down there. Damn!
Downstairs I go, to haul his absent-minded butt out of bed. Except that when I pass the front hall, his boots are not there. He's not home.
I'm not worried. I've long since learned that "plans" for Adam and his friends only reliably means "what we're doing right at this precise moment". Obviously the "plan" to go home after skating changed in the intervening two hours. Heck, they probably changed half a dozen times. These kids are smart as all get-out, most of them, but jointly, they have the attention span of a gnat.
But it's 5:45 a.m. on garbage day. The trucks could be here any minute. If you include the work we did this afternoon with the dryer (which I DO), he's had two reminders, and IT'S NOT MY JOB. If I end up taking the bins to the curb, he's going to hear about it.
It's 5:45 a.m. I smile evilly, scenting a heaven-sent natural consequence. It's 5:45 a.m., after he's been out late playing with his friends. He's going to hear about it now. Bwah-ha.
A cracked and roaking voice answers on the third ring. Of the second call.
"...o?"
"Where are you?"
"Flbz." (Phillip's)
"You forgot to take the garbage out."
"'nnn dnt. s'ow." (No, I didn't. It's out.)
"I don't see it."
"ss. 'ow. ly" (Yes. It's out. Really.)
"You came back, took out the garbage, then went over to Phillip's?"
"mmm"
Oh. What a good kid. A good, responsible kid who deserves not to be woken up at the buttcrack of dawn after a night hanging out with friends.
"Oh. Okay. Go back to sleep. Sorry."
"zzzzzzz"
With any luck, he won't remember this call...
But the garbage? I look out the living room window.
There it is. One pail, two recycle bins.
Where were they the last time?
Well, the last time, I looked from my bedroom window. My bedroom, which is right over the front porch. The front porch, which obscures a small slice of the front yard, creating the Master Bedroom Blind Spot. I knew about the Master Bedroom Blind Spot.
I just, er...
... forgot about it.
Definitely bake the boy a brownie. What a good kid.
I was skating with my kids on the canal last week. It really is a great way to spend a warm winter morning.
Posted by: tuesy | February 27, 2009 at 01:13 PM
LOL! He definitely deserves brownies. And a lie-in tomorrow !
Posted by: Sylvia | February 27, 2009 at 08:43 PM
My son, tasked with the exact same job, hasn't done the garbage in 4 WEEKS. He forgot, he was sick, I was in the hospital and he forgot again. So this afternoon I made him get all the garbage sorted into it's various barrels and bins, and he'll be taking it out Monday night under penalty of death. And I mean it, if it isn't at the curb, he's a dead man.
Posted by: margalit | February 28, 2009 at 12:50 AM
Don't you hate it when they make you look bad by being good!
What a great kid.
Posted by: Ali | February 28, 2009 at 06:29 AM
Sylvia: I'd let him have the lie-in if he'd spend the night at home any time since...
Margalit: Should I be checking the obits on Tuesday?
Ali: What a great kid. Yup.
Posted by: Ilona | February 28, 2009 at 07:46 AM
HA! I LOVE it! It's 5:45 in the morning, you're allowed to forget. Brownies always help in the forgiving department. :)
Posted by: MJ | February 28, 2009 at 12:13 PM
Now wouldn't it have been wonderful if he had come back with several guy friends and moved the dryer too? Except that you all would have been awoken by the crashing, scraping, and muted swearing created by trying to haul the dryer up those narrow stairs...
Posted by: Sarah | February 28, 2009 at 12:54 PM
too cute, don't you hate it when the kid is right, lol
Posted by: Jerri Ann | March 02, 2009 at 12:17 PM