I’m not sure if I was absent-minded when I was pregnant.I know I dropped a lot of things, my fat fingers refusing to grip anything breakable. Clumsy? Yes. Forgetful? Not sure.
But I do know that not long after my kids were born, I started to be able to find things. Yes, the moms-can-find-things gene had been dormant, but Thing One and Thing Two activated it.
In the middle of the night, I could extend my arm, locate a soother in the bedside crib, and plug it into the mouth of whatever twin was about to wail.
Even now, nearly six years later, my Finder’s Gene is getting stronger.
“Mom! I can’t find my slipper!” For some reason, my twins rarely misplace a pair of items. My internal GPS locates the single item.
“Mom! Where did Apple Sauce go?”
Apple Sauce is one of William’s beloved stuffed animals, named after his favourite food item when he was one. Vivian’s version is Milkshake.
I am in the midst of making school lunches, scouring the pantry for nut-free items. I refuse to abandon this task to lead the search for Apple Sauce. Instead, I yell directives at William: “Did you check under your bed?”
“Did you check under your pillow?” With the pantry looking as bare as my kids’ lunch bags, I opt for Pea-Butter, the stuff that looks like peanut butter but tastes like wallpaper paste mixed with a can of mushy peas.
“Found it,” I hear William yell. He skips down the stairs. “It was under my pillow.”
My mom has the same gene. I can remember hobbling around our farm house, one shoe in hand, asking, “Mom? Have you seen my shoe?”
“The one that’s in your hand?” she’d answer.
“No.” Insert teenager eye-roll here.
“The one that’s on your foot?” she’d suggest.
I’d been limping around the house, looking for the shoe that was on my foot. I’ve also looked for an earring that’s been in my ear.
Just last week, when my mom was visiting us, I lost my shoes again. A different pair. My mom told me to check under the train table. Bingo.
I guess this ability to find things lasts a long time.
With the exception of being able to find socks.
And sometimes sanity.
How about you? Have any recessive genes surfaced since you’ve had kids?