I get so exasperated when my kids ask, “Mom!  Do you know where my black flip flops are?”

My favorite answer is, “No I haven’t worn your shoes all day today.”

Then they give me that look.  You know the one that says “You know what I mean.  Don’t try to play dumb.”

And they’re right.  Moms instinctively know where stuff is.  I don’t know how we do it, but we somehow scan each room as we walk through it, cataloging each item we see for later reference.  We also know what’s in corners, under beds, in closets, and in drawers.

“Honey, have you seen the black flashlight?” my husband asks.

“Top shelf … Laundry Room,” I respond without blinking an eye.  He’s amazed when he finds it there.

“Mom, do you know where my library book is?” my son queries.

“Under the covers at the foot of your bed,” I respond.  He looks at me with surprise in his eyes, wondering how I knew that.  I don’t know … sometimes I surprise even myself.

“Mom, have you seen my purple jacket?” my daughter asks.

“Try in the suitcase you haven’t unpacked from last weekend,” I guess.  Yes, a little known secret … sometimes we have to guess.

She comes back in a few minutes and says, “No, it’s not there.  Guess again.” 

I call on my weak, but still female, memory.  I recall seeing it, but can’t quite get it to come into focus … it was someplace unusual … let’s see … it’s coming to me … I’ve almost got it …

“Look in the study … behind the printer … on the floor … in a shoe box,” I finally answer.

She just stares at me.  Now she remembers putting it there.  She thinks I’m psychic.  They all think I’m psychic.

Until I need their help, that is.  What do you think happens when I can’t find something?

“Have you seen my sunglasses?” I ask the bunch of them.

They just shake their heads, pity in their eyes.  “Alzheimer’s,” they all think to themselves.

Finally, my husband pats me on the back and says, “They’re on your head.”