I stood in the kitchen, staring at my three-year-old’s retreating back, and realized with a cold spike of panic that I didn’t know what to call him. Not his nickname, not his middle name, just… nothing. It was like my brain had hit a hard stop button, and for one terrifying second, he was just a small human in a dinosaur shirt.

Let’s be real for a second. We talk so much about the physical exhaustion of motherhood. The sleep deprivation, the sore backs, the endless laundry mountains that seem to regenerate overnight. But we rarely talk about the mental glitches. The moments where your mind just… blanks. And I want you to know that if you’ve ever experienced this, you are not losing your mind. You are not forgetting who you are. You are just incredibly, overwhelmingly busy.

I remember that specific Tuesday clearly because it felt like a betrayal. I was making lunch. Just a simple peanut butter sandwich. My son, let’s call him Leo for now, came running into the kitchen holding a plastic truck. He was chattering away about dinosaurs and trucks and how fast they go. I looked at him, ready to ask him to sit down, and my mouth opened, but the word refused to come out. It wasn’t there. It had vanished. And in that silence, shame rushed in like floodwater. I thought, 'Oh my god, she doesn’t love him enough to remember his name.' That is the lie shame tells us. It takes a momentary lapse in memory and twists it into a moral failing.

Here is the thing about shame that makes it so sticky. It thrives in isolation. If I had told my friends, 'Hey, did you forget your kid’s name today?' they probably would have laughed and said, 'Yes, last week I called my husband 'mom' while he was fixing the sink.' But alone in that kitchen, with the clock ticking and the sandwich getting soggy, it felt catastrophic. I felt like a fraud. Like I was playing a role so well that I’d forgotten the script.

It’s okay not to be okay with these feelings. In fact, it’s necessary to acknowledge them without letting them define you. We hold ourselves to this impossible standard of maternal omniscience. We’re supposed to know everything. What time the doctor’s appointment is. Who hurt their knee. Why the sky is blue. But our brains are not computers. They are messy, beautiful, overloaded systems trying to process a thousand inputs at once. When you forget a name, it’s not a sign of failure. It’s a sign that your brain is prioritizing survival over syntax. It’s choosing to keep everyone safe, fed, and loved over remembering proper nouns. There is dignity in that, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

I went to look this up later, after the panic subsided and I’d successfully distracted Leo with some juice boxes. I wanted to know if this was normal or if I needed to see a neurologist. And guess what? It’s completely normal. Psychologists call it 'tip-of-the-tongue' phenomenon, but when it involves your children, it feels heavier. Our brains are under constant load. Decision fatigue is real. By the time you’ve navigated traffic, negotiated snacks, cleaned up spills, and managed your own emotions, your cognitive resources are depleted.

Think of your brain like a browser with too many tabs open. Eventually, something has to crash. And usually, it’s the least critical information. Facts, names, dates. These get pushed aside to make room for the immediate emotional needs of your family. This isn’t neglect. This is triage. You are doing the heavy lifting of keeping a household running on fumes and sheer willpower. So when the name slips away, don’t punish yourself. Thank your brain for protecting the things that actually matter right now. The connection. The presence. The love. Those aren’t stored in the same filing cabinet as his first name.

So, what do you do when it happens? Because it will happen again. I promise you that. The key is recovery. How you respond to the glitch defines the experience more than the glitch itself. In that kitchen, I froze. I stared at him. He stopped talking. The air got thick. Finally, I just sighed and said, 'Mommy’s brain is buffering. Can you remind me what I’m supposed to call you?'

And do you know what he did? He giggled. He said, 'You call me Leo, silly!' and ran back to his toys. That moment of honesty broke the tension. It showed him that I am human. That I make mistakes. That I am not a perfect robot programmed to serve him. And honestly, that might be the best gift I could give him. Modeling self-compassion. Showing him that when you mess up, you don’t spiral. You laugh. You correct it. You move on.

If you’re reading this and you’re currently hiding in the bathroom because you forgot your child’s name again, take a deep breath. Go back out there. Say, 'I’m sorry, my brain short-circuited.' Watch how quickly they forgive you. They already have. They never judged you in the first place. Only you were doing that.

We spend so much energy trying to curate the perfect image of motherhood. The organized pantry. The matching outfits. The kids who listen the first time. But the reality is messier. It’s forgetting names. It’s burning dinner. It’s crying in the shower because you can’t find your keys. And that’s okay. In fact, that’s where the real connection happens. Not in the perfection, but in the shared humanity of the struggle.

When we admit our flaws, we give others permission to have theirs. When I tell my friends about the time I called my daughter 'dog,' we don’t judge me. We share our own stories. We build a community based on truth, not performance. This episode is an invitation to drop the act. To let go of the need to be the mom who knows everything. You don’t have to know everything. You just have to show up. Even if you show up with the wrong name on your lips. Especially then.

Because here is the secret that no one tells you. The memories your child keeps won’t be of your perfect recall. They will be of your patience. Your laughter. Your hugs when they scraped their knee. Your voice saying, 'I’m here.' Those things don’t require a perfect memory. They require a present heart. And yours is beating loud and strong, even if it’s skipping a beat every now and then.

So tonight, when you tuck them in, or when you’re driving them to practice, or when you’re just standing in line at the grocery store, take a moment to check in with yourself. Are you being too hard on that mental glitch? Are you letting a momentary lapse define your worth? Let it go. You are doing a good job. You are a good mom. Even when you forget the words. Especially when you forget the words.

We’re doing our best. And sometimes, doing our best looks like asking your three-year-old to remind you who he is. And loving him anyway. Loving yourself anyway. That is the victory. Not the perfection. The persistence. The willingness to keep going, even when your brain feels like static. Keep going. You’ve got this. And if you forget his name tomorrow, just smile. Ask again. And laugh. Life is too short to be afraid of your own mind.

Thank you for letting me into your day, for listening, and for being part of this honest, messy, beautiful journey. I’ll see you next time. Until then, breathe easy. You’re enough, exactly as you are. Bye for now.