I don’t think I’ve ever met a more organised person then my wife, Charlotte. When I met her she was an executive PA for the managing director of a major European bank in London. She was the first person I met who owned a Palm Pilot - a very early version. Since meeting Charlotte I have abdicated practically all responsibility for remembering useful things like birthdays, contact details of friends and family, what we’re doing on Friday night, what time is it, what day of the week is it, who am I, where am I and where do I live? All this info and a great deal more is stored in this all-singing, all-dancing piece of technical wizardry. And Charlotte is good with it… very good. “What did I have for supper on June 13th, 2002?” was the kind of question I used to ask, smugly, expecting her to look at me blankly and think I’d gone completely loony tunes. No such luck. She’d look at me thoughtfully, pausing for a second or two, as if just checking I’d said the 13th not the 14th, and then tell me exactly what I’d eaten, where I was sitting, what I was wearing and whether or not I’d had dessert. And if she was struggling even a little she would grab the aforementioned Palm and tap furiously with that clever little pen thingy and look it up.
It was a bit flash, to be honest, but I couldn’t help admire her for having both a Palm, an excellent memory and attention to detail. Sometimes, in the early days, she would remind me of conversations we’d had where I had doubtless made foolish promises which I didn’t think she’d remember. I learned to adapt. I stopped making promises. I didn’t like committing to anything unless I had it written down as well. We emailed a lot more. In those days, we both lived and worked in the same flat and we could just as easily talk as email. But I grew weary of losing arguments about where, when, who and what. I knew I was probably in the wrong, so gave up putting up a fight. But I liked to have documented evidence of our conversations just in case. So Charlotte knew to email me anything we’d definitely decided upon and agreed so I couldn’t deny it at a later date.
And all went swimmingly well for a while. Charlotte was the smart one, the one who knew what was what and was 100% reliable all the time. Even though this could be a bit annoying, I felt safe with her, I could depend on her. She was my rock. She just did know everything.
Until….
She got pregnant with Monty, our two year old. I make that sound like I wasn’t involved. But of course I know I was. How could I be allowed to foget that. I’ve stilll got the prior email reminding me of my anticipated involvement and booking the time and date.
And after Monty was born things gradually returned to normal. In time I began to trust Charlotte’s amazing memory again, usually unprompted by the Palm.
But then with the conception of twins came something altogether unexpected, by me at least. I knew it was possible she’d become forgetful or slightly absent-minded again. What I hadn’t bargained on was that with twins she would become twice as dippy as before. It may sound obvious now in hindsight, but I just didn’t think it would be (or even could be) worse than the first time around.
For example, not long ago Charlotte and Monty were due to go to a local birthday party of some twins we know. Not long after Charlotte left, she called me on the mobile to check on the time of the party. To some people this would sound not only reasonable, but inevitable. But I know my wife. She just doesn’t forget stuff like that.
And there are many other instances like this where Charlotte has forgotten something or doesn’t recall conversations which even I remember.
So now I can’t help getting nervous when Charlotte goes out the door with Monty in the buggy. I want to tie a label to Monty saying “Hello, I’m Monty. If found, please call my Daddy - he’s called Luke” and then write out my mobile number. And I’m also considering writing another label and tying it to Charlotte saying “Hello, I’m Charlotte. If found, please call my hubby - he’s called Luke. And, by the way, if you see a small fella around here, that’s my son, Monty - can you keep him and me together please?”
I watch them go out the front door sometimes. I can’t help fighting back the tears wondering if I’ll ever see them again. I don’t always know where they’re going. More worryingly, neither do they.
Bring on the twins so we can resume situation (fairly) normal please.
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Twins
