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Before having my son, my memory was impeccable. I don’t just mean that I was good with birthdays or important dates, but I could remember what I was wearing and who I was with on a given day three years prior. My friends mocked my creepy ability to recall minute details, but I was proud. “We were last at this restaurant in December of 2010. I know this because I was wearing the coat I had just gotten for Christmas, and we came here to catch up on everything that had happened prior to the holidays.” My brain felt like an organized folder, with memories neatly tucked away and cataloged in such a way that I could recall almost anything.
Cut to the present day, now that I have a 17-month-old in the next room. The image of the inside of my brain that immediately comes to mind is that of a foggy morning, where you can perhaps make out the shapes of people or cars passing by and then you smack into a pole that you didn’t see as you walked down the street.
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