Mom brain has me losing keys, glasses, lists—and occasionally my patience. Maybe we’re not forgetful. Maybe we’re simply full.

The Case of the Missing…Everything

You know what I’ve been looking for lately?

Everything.

My keys. My reading glasses. My grocery list. The debit card I was positive I put back in my wallet. The phone I was talking on.

And occasionally, my patience. Although if anyone happens to find that last one, I’d appreciate its safe return.

The other morning, I spent ten solid minutes searching for my glasses. I checked the kitchen counter, the bathroom, my nightstand, and—for reasons I cannot adequately explain—the refrigerator.

Don’t judge. I raised eight children. I have found things in places that would make the refrigerator seem perfectly reasonable.

Finally, I walked past the hallway mirror and caught sight of myself.

There they were. Sitting proudly on top of my head.

I stared at my reflection for a moment and laughed. “Well,” I told myself, “at least one of us knew where they were.”

Maybe My Brain Is Just Full

People talk about mom brain as though motherhood somehow makes perfectly intelligent women incapable of remembering why they walked into the pantry.

I have another theory.

For years, my brain was essentially Grand Central Station. Who needs a permission slip? Who has a dentist appointment? Who outgrew their sneakers? Did anyone feed the dog? What are we having for dinner? Do we have enough milk? Who borrowed my scissors? Why does everyone keep borrowing my scissors?

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I was apparently expected to remember where I put my car keys.

Frankly, it’s a miracle I remembered my own name.

Even now that my children are grown, I’m not convinced the mental traffic ever completely clears. The details change, but mothers have a way of carrying people around in their heads long after nobody needs a signed permission slip.

There are birthdays and appointments, worries and celebrations, texts we need to answer, prayers we’re quietly saying for someone we love. Add passwords, grocery lists, work, bills, and the location of a pair of reading glasses, and eventually the brain waves a tiny white flag.

“You know what? You’re on your own with the scissors.”

Honestly, I think that’s fair.

The Time I Lost Something That Mattered

Of course, there was one particular disappearing act I will never forget.

Years ago, I made the rookie mistake of believing a three-year-old—even though she happened to be my eighth child.

“Mama,” she promised sweetly, “I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”

You would think by child number eight I would have known those words should come with a warning label.

For approximately forty-three glorious seconds, she kept her promise.

Then something shiny caught her attention.

I was browsing through sweaters at TJ Maxx when I suddenly realized I was admiring cable-knit cardigans alone.

If you’ve ever experienced that split second when you can’t see your child, you know your heart doesn’t simply skip a beat. It packs a suitcase and leaves the country.

I called her name and started looking down the aisles. Nothing. I called again.

Then I heard it.

Giggles.

Tiny, delighted giggles were coming from underneath one of those circular clothing racks. Apparently, while I was preparing to alert every law-enforcement agency in Rhode Island, my daughter had opened a private clubhouse in women’s sportswear.

I pulled back the clothes and there she was, perfectly happy with herself.

I hugged her so tightly she probably wondered what all the fuss was about. Then I put her directly into the shopping cart.

She cried because I put her back in.

I cried because I could.

Motherhood is funny that way.

Then I Went Looking for a Storage Bin

Years later, on a rainy afternoon, I decided to organize the attic.

This was one of those projects I announced confidently at nine in the morning: “I’ll have this finished by lunch.”

That sentence has aged terribly.

I went upstairs looking for one plastic storage bin. Instead, I found three baby blankets, a kindergarten handprint painted blue, a tiny ballet slipper, one of my son’s elementary-school report cards, and an old family vacation scrapbook.

Then I found a birthday card from my mother.

I sat down right there among the boxes.

Suddenly, I wasn’t organizing anything.

I was remembering.

The little voices that had grown deeper. The tiny shoes that became work boots and high heels. Bedtime stories. Messy kitchens. Birthday cakes. Car rides. The thousand little pieces of family life I hadn’t known I was supposed to memorize while they were happening.

I never did find what I went into the attic looking for.

But I found pieces of my life I hadn’t even realized I’d been missing.

Maybe We’re Looking for the Wrong Things

That’s what strikes me now whenever I find myself wandering around the house asking, “Where did I put that?”

Most of the things we lose eventually turn up. The keys are in yesterday’s purse. The debit card is in the coat pocket. The reading glasses are on our heads. The remote is wedged so deeply into the couch cushions it has probably established residency.

But the things I really don’t want to lose aren’t things at all.

They’re the sound of my mother’s voice. My children’s little hands. The stories we’ve told so many times everyone knows when to laugh. The people I love sitting around a table. The moments that seemed completely unremarkable until enough years passed for me to understand that they weren’t.

Maybe life isn’t asking us to remember everything.

Maybe it’s asking us to notice what we want to remember.

The Things Worth Holding Onto

So I’ve stopped being quite so hard on myself when I misplace something. I’ll still complain while I’m searching for it, obviously. Growth has its limits.

But I’m beginning to think a full mind isn’t necessarily a failing mind. Sometimes it’s simply a mind that has spent a lifetime carrying a lot of people, places, responsibilities, worries, laughter, and love.

I’ll keep looking for my keys.

I’ll probably buy another pair of reading glasses.

And someday, somewhere in this house, I remain hopeful that all of my missing scissors will finally reveal themselves.

But the people, the laughter, the stories, and the memories?

Those are the things I want to hold onto.

Everything else will probably turn up eventually.

Usually right after I buy another one.

🐞 Stay Awhile…

If you’re not quite ready to leave the porch, here are a couple more paths you might enjoy wandering down.

If your calendar feels so full that your brain may be considering unionizing…
→ My Calendar Is Full of Everyone but Me

And if you’d like a little pep talk, from you to yourself, check out this cheerleading post…
→ The Pep Talk I Finally Gave Myself; How to Encourage Yourself

🍃 Come Find Your Spot

If you’ve ever searched for your glasses while wearing them—or simply felt like your brain was trying to carry sixteen grocery bags at once—you’ll fit right in here.

Become a Cottage Friend, and I’ll send you my free Welcome to the Cottage letter series—five little notes filled with humor, hope, and gentle reminders that life’s greatest treasures are often hiding in the most ordinary places.

Think of it as a porch chair where nobody expects you to remember why you walked into the room.

🍃 Come Find Your Spot

The porch light will always be on. 🐞