The other day, I almost chased down a school bus.
Not metaphorically. I was genuinely preparing to put my car in drive and go after it.
I was sitting at the bus stop waiting for the kids to get home from school. The bus pulled up, my daughter got off, and then she crawled into my lap because she likes to “help me drive home.” Our bus stop is right at the end of our subdivision, so I let her.
Except my son didn’t get off.
And then the bus started driving away.
My brain immediately went:
CHILD MISSING. BUS LEAVING. RETRIEVE CHILD.
I was approximately two seconds away from ejecting my daughter from my lap and pursuing a school bus through the neighborhood when another tab in my brain finally loaded.
Oh.
After-school practice.
Carry on.
I knew he had practice. I had known ALL DAY that he had practice. At some point, I had successfully entered this information into whatever internal filing system I’m operating.
It just temporarily crashed.
In my defense, my four children are currently participating in seven simultaneous fundraisers.
Seven.
There are only four of them.
I feel like mathematically this should not be possible.
Maybe my brain isn’t defective. Maybe there is simply too much shit stored in here.
Because somehow I’m expected to know which child is fundraising, when the money is due, who ordered what, who already paid, where the forms are, when everything gets picked up, and which kid I’m supposed to hand it back to.
I did not realize motherhood would require this much bookkeeping.
Meanwhile, somebody has shaved ice day.
Somebody else has ice cream day.
Again.
Because these happen every freaking month.
Did I send money? Did I pay online? Which kid has which one? Is it this week? Was that last week?
Why is a measurable percentage of my available brain storage currently dedicated to frozen sugar?
Then there are practices. Auditions. Appointments. School events. Permission slips. Pickup times. Clothes that need to be washed. Things that need to be bought. And the inevitable 9:17 PM announcement that someone needs something tomorrow that they have apparently known about since the beginning of time.
Sure.
I’ll just add that to the system.
And somehow, I’m also responsible for knowing where everyone else’s shit is.
My child will ask me where their shoes are.
I have not worn their shoes. I did not purchase their shoes today. I was not present when they removed their shoes.
And yet somehow this investigation has been assigned to me.
The most irritating part is that I probably know where they are.
Because apparently, at some point, without my knowledge or consent, I became the family’s operating system.
There wasn’t a meeting.
Nobody sat everyone down and said, “Okay, Susie will maintain the schedules, appointments, deadlines, social calendars, school events, inventory of household necessities, and approximate location of everyone’s footwear.”
It just… happened.
And apparently four children’s worth of information wasn’t enough.
Because at some point in adulthood, all your friends start having children too.
Which is lovely.
Truly.
Love that for them.
Except now their children’s birthdays have also been added to your mental database.
So you’re not just remembering your own kids’ birthdays anymore. You’re remembering which friend’s kid has a birthday coming up, how old they’re turning, whether there’s a party, whether your kid is invited, whether you RSVP’d, and whether you remembered to buy a present.
God forbid two friends have children with birthdays close together because now you’re standing in a store thinking:
Wait. Is this child turning 8 or 9?
Whose child even is this?
Do they like Pokémon?
Was Pokémon the other kid?
Why am I buying a birthday present for a human I did not personally create?
It feels like one of the universe’s crueler jokes that by the time you’re old enough to have four children’s schedules permanently stored in your brain, all of your friends have also reproduced.
Congratulations.
You’ve unlocked approximately 42 additional birthdays.
No additional storage was provided.
And somewhere underneath all the fundraisers and frozen sugar and missing shoes, this shit is exhausting.
Because nobody really sees information.
They see you sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone.
They don’t see the 37 tabs still running in the background.
What do we have tomorrow? Who needs to be where? Did I respond to that message? Did somebody need money? When is that appointment? Was there a form in a backpack? Whose birthday party is Saturday? Do we have a gift? Who has ice cream this week?
Wait.
Where’s my kid?
Oh, right.
Practice.
I have an actual full-time job where people expect me to use portions of this brain.
Bold of them.
I have a house. A marriage. Four children. My own appointments and responsibilities. Presumably, I should occasionally remember things about myself.
And, as of this exact moment, 143 unread text messages.
One hundred and forty-three.
At this point, I’m not ignoring anyone. I’ve simply lost control of the situation.
If you’re one of those 143 people, I’m sure whatever you said was important.
Probably.
If it was an emergency, I hope you called someone else.
And yet here I am using valuable storage space to remember that another human being left their shoes beside the couch.
It’s exhausting being the person who knows.
But here’s the really annoying part.
Someday they won’t need me to know.
Nobody will ask me what time practice starts. Nobody will hand me a permission slip. Nobody will need me to remember shaved ice money. Nobody will yell “MOM, WHERE ARE MY SHOES?” from a room containing the shoes.
And that will probably be fucking wonderful.
For approximately six minutes.
Then I’ll probably be sad.
Which is honestly just rude.
So until then, I guess I’ll keep track of the practices, the permission slips, the fundraisers, the birthdays, the frozen sugar, and where everybody left their damn shoes.
Because somehow, I’m responsible.
Somehow, I’m Responsible 