Mommy Moments

I’m at the supermarket, about to pick up a cantaloupe, when a woman I don’t recognize walks directly toward my cart, smiling.

“Hey,” she says, calling me by name. “How are you? How are Howard and the boys?”

I stare a little too deeply into her face. Nothing. No recognition what-so-ever.

“Good. Good. How are…you guys?”

“Fine…” she goes on, not noticing my plastic smile and discomfort. “Jake is really liking camp.”

Jake? My brain flutters at hummingbird speed though cob-webbed reference pockets, in search of a connection. I wonder if he’s a friend of Tyler, Michael or Julius? Jake. Jake? I come up blank.

“That’s great!” I stall. An awkward silence follows. I then focus my attention on squeezing a cantaloupe, and gravely contemplate its worth as if I have a clue what a cantaloupe is supposed to squeeze like.

Why doesn’t she just leave? Can’t she see she’s killing me?

“Okay. Well, it was nice seeing you.” Finally, the torture is ending.

“Call me up and we’ll set up a play date,” she sing-songs, rolling away.

“Absolutely! Sounds good.” Waving her off, I chuck a random cantaloupe in my cart and move on, hoping not to bump into anyone else. Given the size of our town, however, the probability is more than likely that I will. Come to think of it, I actually don’t think I’ve ever gone to the supermarket without seeing someone I know, or at least someone I’m supposed to know.

This is a typical, recurring theme for me. I’m somewhere in town and a woman will approach me with a wide smile of recognition on her face. Sometimes, I recognize the face, but can’t place where I know them. Sometimes, I remember where I know them, but not their name. And sometimes, I have no clue whatsoever.

It’s a running joke, but I worry. I can’t even say that I know who my own kids are all the time. I yell, “Don’t do that, Howard!” I mean Julius! Tyler! Of course, the kid standing before me is Michael, grinning like a cat. Arggh!

When I meet someone now, I consciously try to remember their name. I verbally repeat it, like the memory experts say; knowing full well I sound like an idiot or an anchorwoman. “Yes, Susan, nice to meet you, too. And now, the weather.” We will chat for a few minutes, then Susan departs. “Who was that?” Howard will ask, coming up next to me. “No idea,” I answer, and I really don’t! “Something with an ‘N,’ maybe?”

Today, I had another one of those mommy moments. I’m at the gym, and a blonde woman (who looks familiar, but I don’t know where from) corners me on the elliptical machine and starts chatting happily. “So how’s Julius doing? Does he like camp?” I nod, as I always do. She must think I’ve overkilled on Botox, the way my face stiffens up. Finally, when she asks after my mother, I have to interrupt. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

She gives me an assessing look, but is still smiling when she says, “No problem, I’m terrible with names, too. It’s Kate.”

“Of course! Kate, so sorry.” Kate who? We chat a little more, and after she leaves, I’m still left wondering. Kate? Kate? Who is Kate?

Later that night, I tell Howard about my experience, and how frustrated I was that I couldn’t place this woman, especially since she knew so much about us.

“What was her name again?” he asked, poking his head out from behind an iPad.

I take a moment. I take another.

I have no idea.

When is the last time you had a mommy moment? Did you ever figure out who you were talking to?

Alisa is a SAHM to three delicious boys. She loves reading, staying active, eating ice cream (sometimes up to twice a day!), and writing for her blog, Ice Scream Mama.