I don’t makes excuses. Ever. Excuses just aren’t in my make up. But seriously, I was really, really tired when it happened. Just a fact.

The culprits are the kids. They’re energy vampires. They wear you down until you’re just a collection of facial expressions pretending to be a human. Sometimes you are so utterly exhausted and downtrodden by the little blighters that you can make life threatening errors.

“Do you know what day it is on Saturday?” My wife asks innocently. Innocent in that not at all innocent way. My mind is blank. It’s must be a big thing because she’s specifically reminding me to remember. It’s a cruel but effective strategy.

“Of course I know.” I lie, frantically trying to buy time. “The important question is, do you know.”

“Yes.” My wife smiles calmly. “I know, but do you?”

My brain is going berserk now trying to remember the important events in our lives, what month they happened, and what month it is now. “It’s…”. I’m out of time. I take a crazy, panicked guess. “…our wedding anniversary?”

“Yes!” My wife exclaims, surprised. My relief is over-whelming. I punch the air. Soon I relax again and forget this stressful incident.

I wake up Saturday morning. My wife kisses me and gives me an anniversary card. My blood freezes. I’ve forgotten. Again.

“I think I need to pop to the shops.” I say. My wife doesn’t seem too perturbed by this. Over the course of our marriage I have, cleverly, without intending to, lowered her expectations to somewhere near rock bottom. I’m relieved that she doesn’t seem too angry. Soon I relax again and forget this stressful incident.

We get the kids ready for our family day out. We go to the science museum. We have a lovely, happy, relaxed day.

Back home, my wife hugs me. “Have you noticed how relaxed I am even though I didn’t get an anniversary card or anything?” She says. She has the smile of the hungry tiger. My blood freezes. I’ve managed to forget again, again.

I dash to the late closing shops. I grab a card that says “To The Most Wonderful Wife in the World.”. She’ll have to be. I scoop up some chocolates and wine on the sprint. I race home, feverishly write the most heartfelt card I can muster and present it to my wife. Better late than never, I think.

When she reads the front of the card she starts laughing. This seems good. Then the laughter becomes hysterical. “To the most wonderful wife in the world,” She manages to read, “happy birthday!”

No excuses. It’s all the kid’s fault.