The other day, I lost my appointment card. I felt sick. I had looked in my wallet, my purse, my old wallet, my new wallet, the pen holder by the phone, on the kitchen counter where such things usually get left, in the calender, on the table, you name it, I looked there. But that card was gone.
It wasn't just any old piece of paper with a mere appointment noted on it; this was the card that had all 6 of the last appointments I had for the rest of my pregnancy. This was my key to the end of my pregnancy. The one link I had to knowing that by the time the last appointment ended, I'd have a new baby. Okay, well I'd be closer to having that baby anyway.
And now it was lost. My treasured, golden ticket LOST!
The receptionist had been so kind to make each appointment and then conveniently write each date and time out on ONE card. That way, I wouldn't have a million little cards floating around my purse and other surroundings. That simple, one card was a good idea on cutting down on extra junk in my purse. Plus, by having one card, this pregnant woman wouldn't have to keep track of more than one thing; it was all on that one important card.
And then I lost it.
Bright and early the next morning, I called my doctor's office. The friendly voice that answered got an earful as she listened to the remorse and regret heavily tainting my voice. I admitted to losing the card she had so kindly filled out for me. I apologized for my negligence. I verbally sorrowed over my regret at misplacing it. I may have blamed it on my scattered pregnancy brain (can't remember for sure if I did) but even if I did that, I was still fully willing to take all the blame myself.
After making my heart wrenching spiel, I went to the calender hanging in the kitchen. The one where I write out all my appointments on. I planned to write out the next several weeks worth of appointments while the patient receptionist relayed them to me.
I turned the page to June, narrowing in on the end of this week. The receptionist told me I had an appointment on Friday at 11am. I went to write that out and there on Friday, an 11am appointment was recorded. A week following that appointment, was another such appointment. A week following that one, another appointment was listed. Ironically these appointments all lined up right to the day after my due date.
And then it dawned on me: I intentionally threw the appointment card away the day I got all those appointments recorded -- no wonder I couldn't find the card.
Sheepishly I managed to wish the kind lady a good day and then hang up the phone, all the while shaking my head and trying to figure out when in the world I had written those appointments out.
But, it didn't matter when they were written out: as long as they were there, that's all that mattered.
Before I got over my embarrassment and had quit shaking my head, I happened to be chatting with Toby the next day. We were just making small talk, talking about the baby, kids, work, the new house, baby names... you know, typical parent stuff.
Until we got to the part about the baby's name.
"What's our baby's name again?" The father of my baby asked me, the scattered brained pregnant mother.
It should be understood that for several months, we've had our baby's name picked out. It was never a question as to what first name should go with the middle name or what middle name should be used. It was always agreed on.
But here was my thoughtful loving husband asking me the name of our child.
I had to blink a couple times and think back... when this name was discussed, was Toby even there? Was I discussing this with someone else? Did I come to agreement with someone else on this? A million concerning thoughts whirled in my head as I tried to process this situation.
While I attempted wrapping my head around this obvious problem, standing in front of me waiting for an answer, was my child's own father requesting to know the name of his own child.
"C'mon Honey, what IS his name?" he asked me again, as if I was enjoying keeping a secret from him.
I wouldn't fall for it though. Suddenly I remembered this had happened once before so surely by now, the dear man HAD to remember his own child's name. I mean, you can forget once but not twice, right? Wrong.
He kept prying for information, desperately wishing to know our baby's name. I realized this was real and he wasn't playing on my typical gullible tendencies.
They say a pregnant woman is forgetful but they forget to tell you about the dad.
So, I let him back in on the secret and walked away glad that even if I forget my doctor's appointments, at least I don't forget things of importance like my baby's name.
But, I don't complain. At least Toby hasn't forgotten that I am pregnant. The new recliner sitting in our living room is proof of that. I guess remembering the baby's name isn't really all that important as long as you don't forget about your wife. And that Toby would never do.