I don't care what it is--I think it's brilliant. It's because of Mom Brain that I don't need to be held accountable for anything.
- Whose fault is it when a paid bag of groceries is left at the checkout counter? Mom Brain. And who's to blame if this realization of the orphaned grocery bag happens a couple hours later while back at home? Mom Brain.
- How do keys end up getting locked in the car? With children inside? Mom Brain.
- How does pasta get cooked waaaay past the al dente phase while the urgent need to read ONE e-mail turns into a 30-minute distraction? Mom Brain.
- Where does the idiocy come from when the key ingredient in applesauce is left in a bag at home by the garage door after leaving for someone's house to make and bottle it? Mom Brain.
- Why does a college-educated adult resort to using infantile words during a conversation with another adult? Mom Brain. And if she tries to redeem herself by fishing around for an impressive vocabulary word--thinks about it for awhile--and still fails? Mom Brain.
- How does a mother fail in her protective duty to prevent her crawling baby from taking a swan dive down a flight of stairs? Mom Brain. And if it occurs more than once? Yeah, you guessed it--Mom Brain.
For some women, Mom Brain only lasts during pregnancy or within the first few months with a newborn.
Not me.
In my youth, I have been no stranger to being forgetful: homework, asking parental permission, the correct time for dance practice, the correct spelling of the word goalie in the 2nd grade Spelling Bee. This embarrassing handicap has never left my side, so unless I can verify that I've written down that certain something in my day planner, I will not have my facts straight. (And if I have to speak to a person without cue cards, I can guarantee that I'll sound like a bloomin' idiot.) So, guess what? This tragic forgetfulness has morphed into Mom Brain, but I can thank my lucky senses for deliverance!
"What's that I smell?"
When I smell the bitter scent of burnt rubber...BAM! I remember that Mom Brain forgot about a pot that had boiling water and baby pacifiers inside of it 30 minutes ago.
"I feel something wet!"
When I pick up and feel my soaking wet baby from her afternoon nap...BAM! I remember that Mom Brain didn't change a diaper that morning.
"Do I hear something?"
When I hear soft whimpering coming from the upstairs bedroom...BAM! I remember Mom Brain forgot that a certain little boy has been sitting in timeout for well over 20 minutes.
It's incidents like these that prove that Mom Brain has gotten out of control.
Maybe this is all a load of hooey, but you have no idea how awesome it feels to blame my troubles on a bunch of dead brain cells. Meanwhile, I have begun to read the dictionary for pleasure. Seems to me that I have quite a bit of brain cells to repair. Me, a nerd? Why, yes I am.
Not me.
In my youth, I have been no stranger to being forgetful: homework, asking parental permission, the correct time for dance practice, the correct spelling of the word goalie in the 2nd grade Spelling Bee. This embarrassing handicap has never left my side, so unless I can verify that I've written down that certain something in my day planner, I will not have my facts straight. (And if I have to speak to a person without cue cards, I can guarantee that I'll sound like a bloomin' idiot.) So, guess what? This tragic forgetfulness has morphed into Mom Brain, but I can thank my lucky senses for deliverance!
"What's that I smell?"
When I smell the bitter scent of burnt rubber...BAM! I remember that Mom Brain forgot about a pot that had boiling water and baby pacifiers inside of it 30 minutes ago.
"I feel something wet!"
When I pick up and feel my soaking wet baby from her afternoon nap...BAM! I remember that Mom Brain didn't change a diaper that morning.
"Do I hear something?"
When I hear soft whimpering coming from the upstairs bedroom...BAM! I remember Mom Brain forgot that a certain little boy has been sitting in timeout for well over 20 minutes.
It's incidents like these that prove that Mom Brain has gotten out of control.
Maybe this is all a load of hooey, but you have no idea how awesome it feels to blame my troubles on a bunch of dead brain cells. Meanwhile, I have begun to read the dictionary for pleasure. Seems to me that I have quite a bit of brain cells to repair. Me, a nerd? Why, yes I am.
