The Difference Between Mom Brain and Needing an MRI

Today, I envisioned myself being interviewed on a reality show. What would my dialogue be? Just beeping.

A lot of beeping.

Not the “I’m saying bad words in an angry rage” beeping, just, like, laughing with indiscernible talking and beeping because my brain is misfiring.

All of America watching would be like, “OMG WUT but I hope they don’t medicate her before the season ends so it doesn’t stop, LOL!” and there would be memes of me all over the place the next day.

I think this is my real life sometimes. Brain malfunctions. Forgetfulness. I’m not sure if I even make sense to the guys at the carwash anymore.

Actually, I’m sure they’ve already written me off as the “WUT” category after going through the car wash multiple times in a row with my boys. (We have a monthly membership for my boys’ enjoyment, so we literally get popcorn at a soda shop first, drive through the car wash a few times while they eat it, and then vacuum up the popcorn that is all over the car before we leave. We wave every single time we see the same, non-expressive guy. I used to change sunglasses, but that made it weirder.)

Anyway.

I’ve voiced my concerns to Brian about my brain’s capabilities seeming suddenly sub par. The headspace that was once a very efficient, sharp, creative funland is now…taking a sabbatical. Am I ok? Don’t even ask my where my keys are. Next thing I know, I’m probably going to start paying full price for clothes at Baby Gap like a full fledged idiot.

I’ve told Brian I’ve wanted an MRI for years. Three or four years. Same amount of time I’ve had children…interesting.

I know, I’m currently pregnant. I AM on a medication that truly makes me tired (don’t worry, hair clients, I write down my color formulas), but I don’t know if it’s that + mom-brain full throttle, or if I need a neurologist. I’ve been self-diagnosing.

The key to this diagnosis, though, is to first decipher mom-brain from everything else that will force you to read the fine print of your insurance coverage.

Mom brain is a bunch of browser tabs consistently open in your head, at all times. Right? I mean, even on Black Friday, I get confused and overwhelmed with nine pages open at the same time, and I am hiiiighly motivated then.

Mothers may be seemingly more discombobulated because they have tabs on tabs. We can’t be flitting through all of these tabs 789027054x per second. Ask anyone at Apple. Memory is not infinite… unless you’re going to pay for that.

Browser Tabs constantly opened in a mom brain:

Home
Groceries
School Schedules
Work
Car Pool Rotation
Paw Patrol Names
Laundry Switching to the Dryer
Appointments
Church Obligations
Husband’s Work Schedule
Last Four of Your Own Social
Hair Washing Cycle
Passwords
Bill Payments
Gym
Friends
People You Never Texted Back
Sports Practices and Games
Kids Birthdays
(Don’t look at me like that when I pause to think, pediatrician office girl.)

Even an iPhone X would freeze under the browser abuse!

Justice. For. Moms.
Say it again.
JUSTICE FOR MOMS!!!

I explained this to Brian while cleaning the kitchen with no pants (in the least sexy, “I took off my pants because I just feel fat but don’t throw out the rest of that pizza” way), and an ill fitting shirt that says VACATIONLAND on the front.

He gave me a hug.

I just need to buy iCloud space for my brain. It’s at capacity. Possibly some glitches, but full memory over here. Can I save my high school math skills on an external hard drive and delete it from my brain? (In actuality, the “math” tab in my brain cannot be occupying significant space.)

I still want the MRI to be safe.

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16 weeks and Thoughts from My Bathroom Floor

I have been getting ROCKED by this baby girl lately. I’m sixteen weeks now, and on a max dosage of nausea medication, so I’m not sure why I’ve recently had my most sick week. Maybe I’d been in the eye of the storm for a while, and now I’m hitting the fury of the eye wall and outer band.

Maybe I’ve watched wayyyy too much Hurricane Irma coverage while I’ve been sick.

Here’s a quick, what-we’ve-been-up-to rundown (low quality iPhone pics included) and thoughts from my bathroom while I sip Diet Coke on the floor:

I became OBSESSED with Hurricane Irma. I tracked Irma’s every move for no apparent reason.

When I wasn’t checking out Irma (she was just so slow for the frequency of my stalking), I found new myself wide-eyed reading the feed of my most diabolical social media outlet, Facebook. Although it’s not in response to anything I post, people get CRAY on Facebook. SO OFFENDED. ALL THE TIME. Your daughter wore a romper? OFFENDED. “God bless America” as your status? OFFENDED. A little boy drinking water out of a Starbucks cup? HORRIBLE. CPS ALERTED. A funny meme about parents not wanting their kids to have school projects? THE NERVE.

Are these people my friends? Aren’t the busy at jobs or something, or are they just licking Saltines while scrolling, too?

I’m equally parts entertained + whatever that feeling is I had about my neighbor’s three outdoor chihuahuas. (I did pray for coyotes, I will say that.)

We already flaunt marijuana dispensaries in Las Vegas, but judging by my Facebook feed, this nation would most benefit from Xanax dispensaries. Xanax brownies and gummy bears for all!

There it is. I figured out world peace before my Tums dissolved.

OMG, don’t tell Facebook I said this.

I’m still taking crackers with me everywhere. I alternate between Saltines and Ritz, which is proven by the 3″ of crumbs padding the bottom of my purse.

I also am constantly sipping Coke, preferably Pepsi, but sometimes preferably Diet Coke because I don’t even know my own preferences anymore. We frantically hauled ourselves to the library for story time last week , only to find it had been cancelled. The quick pace forced us to take a “too much sudden movement” restroom lounge while I sipped whatever I was drinking and put cold water on my face, while Gus suggested ditching the library for “Tacoooo Rioooo” (Café Rio) with gusto.

Before my sickness took a hard turn (the eyewall…can I call it that? I’m going to start mixing obstetrical and meteorologist terms), I beat my PR at Chuck E Cheese skeeball with a 10,000 point ball. I got, like, 4 tickets and I’d like to dispute the ticket allotment with someone at corporate as skeeball actually takes more talent than the higher payout games.

The price of snow cone and lemonade stands has increased substantially since I was selling on the streets. Inflation, I guess…and the financial offset of the generator needed for their actual ice machine. Elementary entrepreneurs don’t understand the struggle of we early 90s snow cone shavers.

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One of the Best Things About Boys & Why I’m a Little Jealous

As a mom, I can always gauge my babies’ ages by my favorite little sweet spot on the back of their necks.

Do you know the place I’m describing?

It’s right where their little heads wobble when they’re brand new, raising their heads from their daddy’s shoulder with no little effort, trying REALLY hard to check out the world around them for the first time.

It’s where that little roll forms when determined babies lift their heads when they protest tummy time.

It’s the spot that fluffy little baby bird hair covers when not-quite-a-baby babies need their first haircuts.

After a birthday or two, that little spot slowly fills in. It’s strong. It’s not as rounded. The shoulders do the same thing as toddlers turn into little boys or girls.

Does this sound weird? It can’t if you’re a parent who has spent a BILLION hours laying down with your child. Sick, to sleep, playing hide and seek in the exact same spot over and over…you know.

Roscoe still has that little spot. Gus? it’s barely distinguishable.

After many nights of laying with him as he falls asleep (but mostly during failed naptimes) (I know naptimes are over for him, but I still try out of desperation), I’ve admitted it. My baby boy grew into a little boy. B-O-Y.

He headed to preschool this week and he couldn’t have been more excited. I know I’m his mom, but I could gush about him forever.

The best, most enviable part of boys is that no matter how broad their shoulders get, no matter how tall and strong they grow, they never really grow up.

Not in 100% totality. Sure, boys grow into “men,” and definitions may vary… but all the best men I know still have a little bit of boy in them.

That ease, that ability to separate themselves from their other roles and titles of responsibility to let loose for a minute, the ageless appreciation for the funny if not immature…all of it. If you look at an elderly man’s eyes when he laughs, a younger boy is still visible there.

(In general, I don’t think women can shake off their stresses/motherhood responsibilities/worries as easily. Women would argue that is favorable, or that someone has to be the adult…but, maybe, it’s suicidal to that youthful, lively, sometimes abandoned side of us.)

My husband is this way. I love this about him. He is a mature, professional, and driven adult, but…treading water underneath all the work clothes, contracts, work emails, phone calls that interrupt dinner, bills, and daddy duties is that super fun, charming, seventeen year old boy.

Brian had his longest running Fantasy Football League in town, and they were ridiculous.

I’m a big fan.

To determine their draft pick, these men (I didn’t use quotation marks around that as not to offend anyone), who are adult professionals, shed blood racing through a bounce house obstacle course, sweat through a home run derby, raced scooters, pounded soda and hot wings in a contest…and I didn’t ask for elaboration beyond any of that.

My only real contribution was generic Advil.

I’m grateful my little guys have a strong daddy, who will help raise them into great men who never lose sight of the boy inside.

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