Forget Me Not

July 2 is National I Forgot Day (really) and I am stoked about it. If you didn’t know about this holiday, don’t worry, you probably just forgot. I did extensive (not really) research on IFD and it seems there are two main ways to celebrate: you can use the day to temporarily forget something negative that brings you down; or you can express regret for all the important things you forgot about over the year. You can buy “I forgot” e-cards (You know, for forgetting Mother’s Day—that’ll totally make up for it.), send flowers, or take your kid to the Bethlehem Public Library in Delmar, N.Y. The library is holding an IFD event for kids—youngsters can make cards for their parents’ anniversaries and other dates a kindergartener might overlook and, clearly, should feel guilty about. I just hope their parents don’t forget to take them to the library.

However, I think all these people are missing the point. It seems obvious to me that I Forgot Day is the ultimate opportunity to get out of stuff with zero repercussions. I forget a lot (a lot) since having a kid. This brilliant holiday will allow me 24 hours of guilt-free behavior and the priceless opportunity to push my forgetfulness to its full potential.

I fully intend to forget to make dinner on July 2. Was that big work deadline today? Eesh, sorry, I forgot. Did I work out today? I’m sure I did and simply forgot. If I were a California official I might forget to work on our budget woes—and why shouldn’t I since Governor Schwarzenegger forgot to take economics. The whole thing does beg one question: If I forget and then you forget that I forgot, did I every really forget? . . . Actually, this is looking excellent for the government.

So go ahead: Forget to make the kids a healthy dinner and just eat sundaes Thursday night. Forget the route to your office and skate in around noon. Book that Hawaiian vacation (you can’t be faulted for forgetting you were supposed to visit the in-laws that week). Hand the stinky baby to your spouse (he just forgot he said he’d change diapers today, right?). Forget you’re supposed to be saving money and go enjoy a little retail therapy. Or just forget how many glasses of wine you’ve had and pour another. If my theories are correct, you can’t lose.

Thursday. Don’t forget.

Too Hot to Handle

It’s hot. Sally has been half naked all day. It’s almost never hot here. Nobody even has air conditioning — downright third world, if you ask me, even if we would only need it one week out of the year, the week we each wear our one pair of shorts till they are grungy molds of our rears.

A bad thing about heat is that it makes you avoid human contact. When you’re just you, that’s okay. When you have a 30-pound, walking, talking growth who wants you to hold not only her but her heat-trapping devil blanket, you start getting cranky. The only way to avoid becoming the Incredible Hulk’s less nice cousin is to keep everyone busy. You’d rather lie on the floor and let the flies buzz around you, of course, but moving around is better than having another sweaty body touch yours. Also, it helps prevent the worst thing about the heat: Flaring tempers.

Unfortunately, for us it’s too late. Sally is sick, I’m hungry and we’re having a showdown. All we’re missing is a tumbleweed.

“You pick it up.”
“No, Sally, you dropped it and you’re closest to it. You pick it up.”
“You do it.”
“No, you do it.”

I should point out here that she is 2, I’m 31 and we’re talking about a teensy play swing that goes with her Calico Critters house. Not my finest parenting moment. Still, neither of us budges. Two pair of blue eyes pierce each other while tiny, country-clad toy cats lay on the table, ready to melt into the paint.

Her eyes narrow. “Mommy, are you feeling . . . angry?”
“No.” Yes. But this is a stupid argument and I will win stupid arguments. “It’s simply your job to pick it up.”

She puts her hand on her revolver. I spit out chewing tabacco. Fragile onlookers avert their eyes. So this is how it ends.

“Can I have lemonade?”
“. . . Sure.”

My only saving grace in this heat is that her attention span is shorter than mine. But don’t think she’s forgotten the battle: Five hours later the swing is still on the floor and we’ve had the exact same argument two more times. Each ended with a refreshment. It’s supposed to cool down late this week. Maybe then she’ll pick up the toy.

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