I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure my husband and both my sons suffer from the same ailment: male pattern blindness. I wrote about it a long time ago; it was one of my first blog posts back in 2014. And eight years later, I’m still convinced — having a penis makes you blind.
Back when I first talked about male pattern blindness, I was hopeful it was a malady that could be outgrown. After all, my boys were just 8 and 11 when I voiced my concerns. But here we are, eight years later, and they are still symptomatic. I guess I should have known better because my husband has the condition, too. [SIDE NOTE: I think the affliction goes hand-in-hand with selective hearing, but that’s a discussion for another blog post.]
I don’t have a medical degree, nor do I have any scientific proof, but based on my own observations (and the testimony of other moms I know), I believe the inability to locate something — anything — is definitely a defect of the Y chromosome. How do I know? Because those of us with two X chromosomes can easily find the almond butter (it’s in the same place it always is: on the far right side of the second shelf in the pantry, next to the honey), the band aids (in the first aid box on the left side of the second shelf above the toaster in the kitchen AND in the white medicine basket on the left side of the second shelf upstairs in the linen closet), and the insurance information (in the left-side bottom desk drawer in the office, in a file labeled ‘Insurance’).
Case in point: On Sunday, my youngest told me we needed to go to Dick’s to buy him a new football girdle. Not wanting to unnecessarily spend the money or make the trip, I told him to first look downstairs in the sports gear-labeled box for one. When he told me he did and we didn’t have one, I begrudgingly went down stairs to the exact box I described to him and found not one but two football girdles in his size. Either he needs eyeglasses, or he didn’t actually look. My money’s on the latter.
I think the male pattern blindness problem in my household is compounded by three things:
- My men/boys are lazy. Merriam-Webster defines search as “to carefully look for someone or something.” The operative word being carefully. If it’s not within their direct line of vision, it’s “lost” to them; there is no ‘careful looking’ happening.
- My men/boys are slobs. They leave their sh*t anywhere and everywhere. ALL THE DAMN TIME. Nothing has a home, so it’s a crap shoot where it lands, and if they’ll remember later.
- My men/boys don’t listen. In my world, everything has a place, so nothing is ever misplaced. [Unless I’m having a midlife moment … Then all bets are off.] I tell them to follow this same process, but it goes in one ear and out the next. F*ckers.
I know, I know … Saying the male members of my family are lazy slobs who don’t listen is aggressive and probably a bit unfair, but it’s also kinda true — albeit a tad exaggerated.
Admittedly, I’m part of the problem, too. I’m often guilty of enabling them because I’m impatient; sometimes it’s easier to just tell them where something is, or to go get it myself. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me. It does. Often. Especially when I’m in a bad mood (which, to be fair, is also often).
The motherhood mental load is heavy enough without adding “finder of all the things” to the job description, so I’m tapping out. From now on, it’s every man for himself. If you want me to get involved, I’m charging a finder’s fee … Hey, I think I just found my new side hustle!
-LJDT
