It gets worse every year. And every year I vow that next year it will be different.
I remember when it started - PlayStation had just turned two and I was still trying to juggle three kids, an office-based job and organising Christmas.
In a three-day period of yuletide chaos, I found myself giving my registration and insurance details to two other harried mums in the supermarket car park, and had accumulated nearly $350 in speeding fines getting from day care, school, work, and back.
After trying to explain to the disbelieving motor vehicle call centre telephonist that yes, I had just called yesterday regarding a similar incident, it all fell in a heap when I arrived home one day to find I only had two children.
It was 5.45pm, husband had just come home too, but the house seemed a little empty.
When the day care centre rang to find out if anyone was coming to collect PlayStation, I realised why.
I've made a conscious effort since then to try and prevent the Christmas brain drain.
I make lists, keep my diary near me at all times, tell someone else about the appointments or scheduled appearances in case I lose the lists or diary. Deep breathing, a bit of yoga and stretching. I was sure that I had this thing beat.
Until last week, when all the preventative measures I had taken just didn't work.
The week before Christmas is a frantic time for most people, especially if they have kids, jobs, husbands, mothers, fathers, or even pets.
It's not just the last minute - or in my case first minute - present buying that inhibits rational thinking, it's all those other pesky interruptions that lead to nativity numbness.
And when just one is missed, it's like a domino effect - the rest of the pieces come tumbling down.
It all started so innocently two weeks ago when I arrived at the doctor's for a check-up. I don't visit the doctor often so I made sure to write down the date, and exact time of the appointment, but didn't call to check.
I felt the first ripple of apprehension when the receptionist told me I was a day late - and the next available appointment was in two weeks.
Okay, I can handle this - breathe deeply, reschedule, write it in the diary, and get on with the rest of the week.
But like the butterfly flapping its wings in South America and causing a tornado in the North Pole years later, that one slip-up started an avalanche.
Within two days my life had gone from tidy to tumultuous. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't get it back in order.
Despite notes on the fridge, ramblings in my diary and even making sure that all important dates were also put down on my mother's calendar, the re-programming didn't work.
It reached its peak when PlayStation came home from school without the usual spring in his step or smile on his dial and asked why no-one had come to see his Christmas performance that morning.
"It's not until tomorrow," I said as I opened my diary and pointed to the date. "And Grandma would have told me if it was on today."
With a small sigh, PlayStation went to the fridge, pulled down the bright pink A4 sheet of paper on which the performance date had been done in huge bold letters.
I just better go and check now that I've marked off the right night for Santa to come down the chimney.
Keeli Cambourne is a South Coast journalist and mother trying to find the perfect life/work balance.
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