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The Wonders Of A Pre-Menopausal Memory

This story is about perimenopause and memory. I feel compelled to say that right up front, because in a minute you’re going to think that this story is about bad parenting, or natural remedies, or the joys of parenting.

It’s not. It’s about pre-menopausal memory. Or, the lack thereof.

Every so often, B gets on an “I’m going to earn a bunch of money kick”, which leads to him working in forest management for a fee.

That is, he cuts or chops down small cedar trees in the woods on our property, and J pays him based on the size of the tree he cuts down.

B decided to try to cut down as many small trees as he could using a machete.

Here’s where you’re going to think we’re bad parents.

Go ahead; make my day.

He’s used the machete before with no negative consequences. And J thought it was the appropriate tool given the size of the mini-trunks. He’s also twelve years old, for those of you who don’t know and might have been thinking I was talking about a pre-schooler or something.

But B was focused on making as much money as possible. So he was in a hurry. And he hates denim, so he was wearing what he always wears when it’s below sixty degrees outside: sweatpants.

You know where this is going, don’t you? You might even be flinching.

Yes, he whacked a little too hard at one point, and brought the machete around a little more than he should have.

And nicked himself in the shin.

I’m not going to get graphic. Let’s just say it’s not as bad as it could have been (thank GOD!), but it wasn’t your average cut.

And since it was the machete that nicked him, I deemed the situation worthy of some intense anti-bacterial/anti-viral action. I decided B should take a few capsules with rosemary and frankincense essential oils for a couple of days, until we could be sure the wound wasn’t going to cause a system-wide infection. (Here’s where you might think I’m going to lecture on the benefits of natural remedies over drugs. I’m not.)

Have I told you lately that B has a sensitive digestive system? Okay, B has a sensitive digestive system. A chip off the old block (the female one. Um, that would be yours truly). And apparently, it doesn’t like too much of essential oil landing into it at one time, especially confined in a capsule.

You know where this is going, don’t you? You might even be flinching.

I’m not going to get graphic. Let’s just say that B had emptied his stomach by nine-thirty that night.

Based on prior experience with B’s day-after-vomiting struggle to eat, I decided I wasn’t going to make him his usual smoothie for breakfast. Instead, I’d thaw out the butternut squash soup, the kind that’s packaged in a shelf-stable box, that had been sitting in the freezer for a while. So that’s what I did.

The next morning, I shook the box to make sure it was completely thawed. Yep. And when B woke up, announcing he was hungry, I gave the box another few good shakes, took the lid off the saucepan, and started pouring the contents of the box into the pan.

All that came out was water. “Huh,” I said to B. “I must not have shaken it enough.”

Using a funnel, I returned the water to the box and shook it even harder. Poured again.

All that came out was water.

You might have an idea where this is going. And here is where we talk about perimenopausal memory.

At that moment, I remembered. I remembered that I had fed the soup to myself and J for lunch one day a couple of months ago. I remembered that I thought I’d need another container with ice for the coolers (which we use in lieu of a refrigerator), so after rinsing the box thoroughly I went to the rain barrel and filled the box two-thirds full with water.

And stuck it in the freezer.

In the same place it had been when it had contained soup.

Oops.

I made B a mini-smoothie, and he was able to eat it.

Another thing to thank God for: small favors. Now if He would just make the rogue estrogen in my body to stop messing with my brain, I’d really have something to shout about.

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