Ms. Perfect

Response to prompt #10 http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2016/02/prompt-9-i-forgot.html

I've been *racking my brain for ideas ever since this prompt was posted, trying to remember a time when I forgot a birthday, an anniversary,  or an otherwise special day or event. Nothing. I forget names all the time, but I'm pretty upfront about that and get it corrected quickly, without too many hurt feelings (I think).

I even asked John, certain he would have something tucked away in his pocket, ready to pounce on the opportunity to let me know how I've hurt his feelings in the past. Nope.

This is not to say that I don't screw up. I do it all the time. I forget small things: why I went into a room; a purchase of something on my list at the store; the fact that I've told someone something. And, I am the queen of sticking my foot in my mouth, but admitting my faux pas and quickly apologizing usually rectifies the situation.

Once at a family get-together,  my dad responded to something I said by singing in a mocking tone, "I'm Ms. Perfect."  That cut. I don't think that about myself for one millisecond. I am the first to point out my many flaws.  This has become a joke in my little clan, although I don't always think it's funny. I don't like that others think I think I'm perfect.  I could blame my parents since I always felt I had to be perfect, but what good does that do?  Instead, I've worked hard to change their perceptions, but I don't know how successful I've been. And, I am beginning to care less and less.

I digress.

The only thing that works its way to the forefront of my mind when I ponder this prompt is that I forget important things mostly when they have to do with me. And, one time in particular, my forgetting to take care of me did have serious implications for others.

"Mrs. Ferry, you were scheduled for your post-delivery follow up today, and you didn't show," chided the receptionist at my gynecologist's office. "You need to re-schedule and get your release to go back to work."

Well, shit. The thing is, I forgot because I was at work. In fact, I had been for a full week.

After a not-so-pleasant bout with what I now know was postpartum depression, hives after being given penicillin during labor, not knowing I was allergic, painful, engorged breasts after a few failed breast-feeding attempts, and a colicky, screaming baby, John and I sat down with our checkbook and bills, and decided at 7-weeks after giving birth, I needed to return to work.  I was a basket case about leaving Alyssa with a mother who ran a daycare in her home despite her sweet demeanor and spotless record. I was also secretly looking forward to the 9-hour respite from Miss Screams-a-Lot.

I apologized profusely and re-scheduled after a back-and-forth conversation about available times and days. This practice was popular in the area, so it was tricky, especially with my work schedule.

I went to the appointment, and since my hives were gone and my boobs had settled down, I figured there was no need to mention the other stuff. It was just a phase; I'd power through like always.  I'd be fine. Plus, I needed to get the hell out of there because I was doing this on my lunch break and already pushing my luck on time.  I was the manager, so I should have been allowed this luxury, but I had a narc maintenance man who kept a notebook of everyone's transgressions---I presume for blackmail. Plus, I liked to lead by example. Man, were my priorities screwed up.

Alyssa and I battled through a couple more months of screaming and crying.  John worked long hours at a public accounting firm (the new hires were worked to the bone for the first 5 years or so), so we were calm and collected (aka sleeping) when he came in at 9 or 10 pm.  Plus, I was embarrassed to admit even to him that I was not loving my new role.

My "forgetting" to mention the sadness, the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy, the frustration, and the overall angst to my doctor affected my new family.  There was a dark cloud over a time that should have been full of joy. There were joyful moments, and don't get me wrong, I loved her to my core.  I cannot help but regret not seeking help for my feelings. It would have made me a better person, mom and wife.  It also affected those I worked with as I locked myself in my office to cry or snapped at my co-workers when they made some minor mistake.

Over the years, you would think I would have learned to put myself near the top of my list. Sometimes I do. Mostly I don't.

When I forget someone, it's usually me.

*Interesting (I think) side-note: I will admit I had to look this one up. I couldn't for the life of me remember if I should use "racking" or "wracking." Did you know the use of "wrack" in the phrases wracking my brain and nerve wracking is an all too common mistake?  I won't forget it for next time!