Fish oil? Vitamin D? Ginkgo biloba? Omega 3s? Aloe vera? So many fancy names, so little help. I’m on a hunt for the magic medicine that will recover all the brain cells that have vanished over the last three years. Ever since my son went from the inside to the outside, something has happened to one of my very favorite bodily assets: my brain. Yes, in the past I may not have used it as much as I would have liked to, but at least back then I had the option! Today, that is no longer my call. What lies inside my head is a bit more blurry, a bit more wishy-washy, and a LOT more scattered. I swear, having children and balancing work, life, and relationships has destroyed my ability to function as I once did (well, that combined with countless college nights spent at Grandma’s Sports Garden drinking from $2 pitchers of grape kamikazes…with a giant handmade straw). Don’t believe me? The proof is in the pudding (I don’t even know if that saying applies here, but I’ve always wanted to use it):
The other night, Nate and I were up late chatting and he was reading news stories aloud to me from his iPhone. Often, these conversations are about some movie director who directed some other movie that was unlike this other movie, or March Madness brackets and what it takes to win them, or which political candidate sounds and looks more like a dirty car salesman because he doesn’t believe in XYZ and he said XYZ about XYZ and…z…zzzzz…zzzzzzzz. (I love you, Nate) But, this night, he was reading celebrity gossip. My ears perked right up. Our conversation went like this:
Nate: “Tori Spelling is having another kid. They’ll be born the same year as each other.”
Me: “That’s called Irish Twins. Gross.”
Nate: “We could have that, ya know.”
Me: “What are you talking about? That would require us to (trail off)…not possible.”
Nate: “SERIOUSLY, Nicki? Were you THAT tired?!”
Well, case in point. I guess we could have Irish Twins and evidently I don’t sleep enough to remember sex with my own husband. I’m awesome like that. Crap.
This conversation kind of epitomizes every aspect of my life. Do I remember dentist appointments for myself? No. Do I send out work emails containing incorrect URLs on a regular basis? Unfortunately, yes. Do I neglect to screw the orange juice cap on all the way, thus causing my husband to splatter all over the kitchen when he’s simply following proper OJ etiquette and shaking before pouring? Yup. Do I have conversations on my cell phone that entail the phrase, “Where the hell is my cell phone!?” You know it. Have I searched my purse frantically for sunglasses that are sitting covertly on my head? Guilty. Have I left the house for work in the morning without my a) computer b) cell phone c) jacket d) keys e) purse f) lunch g) bra? Oh dear. I’m ashamed to say A through G are all positives. (The missing bra? Now that was an awkward day)
The commonality in all of this brainless activity, however, is ME. These are things that are about ME. My appointments. My job. My bra (or lack thereof). My kid was born and my brain split in half, designating one side entirely to the well-being of my children and the other side to…well, that other side is still reserved for math, science and other crap that never truly burrowed its way in. So there’s my excuse. More proof in the pudding (Yay! Twice in one blog!):
I can pack a weekend bag for my kids in less than two minutes. No joke. Diapers, formula, bottles, sippy cups, snacks (not included in these two minutes is the time it takes to fill those ridiculous little snack baggies – pretzels are less pourable than one might think), outfits for two days, Buzz Lightyear, bassinet, burp rags, booger sucker, portable DVD player, lotion, crayons, notebook, toothbrush and accompanying non-flouride paste, pajamas, a coat, and finally, an extra pair of shoes in case they find puddles made of mud. There. Whew. I just typed that in about 13 seconds. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve got it down.
Do I always remember to buckle their safety belts, whether it’s in a wagon, a stroller, or a car? Yes. Can I recognize if a movie is Toy Story 1, 2 or 3 simply by the first nanosecond of the opening credits? You betcha. Do I have a mental grocery list of which peanut butter we are out of or which macaroni brand is this week’s favorite? Sure do. Have I ever neglected to have bottles washed and ready for the nanny in the morning or has our camera battery ever died at a cute and crucial memorable moment? Never. Never ever ever. Can I recite the words to Goodnight Moon without even opening the front cover? Absolutely (kind of proud of this one). Has a night gone by that I haven’t kissed my kids goodnight, told them I love them and got teary-eyed as I walked out of the room? Negative. This is a sure thing. Happens every night at 9:30 p.m. Never fails. Ever.
The list goes on and on, but I think you can see where my mind has gone. It’s gone to a place where decisions are made based on tantrums and laughter. Where pleasures are found in the worlds’ smallest wonders. Where mental snapshots are captured and stored deep inside for those days in the future when my little littles ain’t little no more. It’s a wonderful place to be and I hope you can all be open to experiencing a little brain transformation someday too. It does wonders for your soul.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to the couch to continue my marathon of The Big Bang Theory (where they say nothing I understand but my gosh, do I laugh!). Story of my life.
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