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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Baby GIRL!

There are a dozen or so milestone moments in your lifetime that are completely surreal. They elicit so many overwhelming emotions competing for the spotlight, there truly are no words to describe them.

Getting a long awaited positive pregnancy test and learning gender of EACH of my babies was incredible.

Discovering our baby is a GIRL yesterday added to these once-in-a-lifetime, total Cloud 9 moments.

We waited an extra couple of hours to do a gender reveal. I’m too antsy…I never could handle the wait with my other two pregnancies! Even though I love my friends and a party, I loved having just my little family gathered (with my photog friend Chelsea). I didn’t think of entertaining, food, or anything else. We were totally undistracted and absorbed the moment!

(Brian had previously joked that he only makes boys because of his Mountain Dew and fried chicken intake, and I was totally THRILLED with the three boy family I’d half anticipated…but me closing my eyes as I opened the box suggests that deep down, a girl tipped my hope’s scales.)

Don’t ask how much I’ve already spent on her wardrobe! We CANNOT wait for February.

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Wedding Flashback

Today, Brian and I are celebrating (well, acknowledging) our eighth wedding anniversary. Eight! How was this favorite day of mine eight years ago?

I’ll spare you the cheese, but I married up. I am so proud to be Brian’s wife. He is just GOOD, you know? He is the most patient, kind, selfless person I know, and makes anything and everything fun. It’s impossible not to like him.

(I mean, it took ME a couple years, but when Morgan helped me figure it out, I sealed the deal real quick. That’s a different story.)

The more time that passes, the more I enjoy scrolling through wedding photos and reminiscing. “Remember that watch?” “I forgot about her short hair!” “We look SO young!”

We’re hoping to REALLY celebrate our anniversary later this week, but since it’s Sunday evening, these photos are where the party is at. I’ll always love our friend Denise for beautifully capturing such a fun day! (PS Denise, I am wearing your old shorts right now…)

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A Complete Idiot’s Guide to Trophy Wife-ing

My trophy wife data comes from observing a good handful of Las Vegas women who have forgotten they’re not Kardashians…

A COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO BECOMING A TROPHY WIFE

Regardless of your social media platform of choice, avoid taking selfies without Snapchat filters. Use only the dog or flower crown filter lest you should reveal your age (and pores).

If your Starbucks order is not to your liking, or if the drive-thru employee put the order label over the cup’s logo AGAIN, thus ruining above mentioned selfie with your drink, address the issue. Let your complaints fly off of your lips with the same sharpness as the needle that has just injected them. If that sounds harsh, you’re better suited to hang out with the soccer moms, not the trophy wives.

Make an effort not to furrow your brows in your Starbucks scolding. Never show signs of emotion, specifically on your face. Trophy wives everywhere look to Victoria Beckham for inspiration. Not only will this impassiveness keep you mysterious, it will also prevent you from draining your Tom Ford fund on Botox. A few more laugh lines and you’ll be shopping at The Rack.

Although some may interpret this unexpressive attitude as heartlessness, it’s better than being considered sweet. Trophy wives should never like anything sweet, unless it’s the agave-based dressing on sugar-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, organic kale. Anything made without this sugar substitute will later be carved off by a surgeon.

In the rare and unfortunate event that this should happen, clothe yourself in as much Lululemon as possible to distract eyes from any healing scars. Better yet, accessorize your Lululemon with jewelry, preferably something with a giant designer logo. Sparkly Chanel logos are best. This is a typical trophy wife defensive maneuver used to blind those that seek proof of plasticity.

Plus, nothing says, “I work out hard,” like Lululemon and Bvlgari jewels.

Below, trophy wife fail. Fail fail fail.

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Beware the Ides of March…Madness: A BINGO board for YOU to look like you care

My husband has played basketball his whole life. To say he is a fan is to say Mormons use cream of chicken soup.

Understatement.

My experience with basketball is…nothing. Well, except for the time I was on an intramural team in college, but that’s a different story.

Now, look. I enjoyed making March Madness brackets during seasons past, but I still most definitely did not watch all the games. However, for my husband’s sake, I tried to be interested in basketball. The jig was up after about a year of marriage, and that constant squeaking of shoes just gets me. This could stem from my childhood of being a hamster owner and listening to it run in a squeaky wheel all night, but either way, after a certain amount of time, I hate squeaking of basketball shoes and hamsters equally.

Still, it would be nice of me to sit with Brian and pretend to like a game, but I would be mad at myself for wasting time…and what the heck would I do? Laundry? Work on my Kegels?

I’d love to make a social event out of it, but then I’d definitely not be watching.

So, friends of both genders who watch games against their wills, I have created a BINGO board for you with some game watching activities. They include items like “over contoured girl,” and “lip reading a bad word.” I can’t help you with your Spring Break bod’, but I can help you impress your special someone with basketball attentiveness.

Click on it here…I believe you can print it… but you can also play through your phone. Each time it’s clicked, a new board is generated, so everyone’s will be different. I’m half joking/half serious, but tag me if you really do it so I can tell Brian why I was making BINGO boards during nap time instead of laundry.

And, boys…if your lady is watching the screen, I’d say there is a 93% chance it’s not because she is absorbed in the game. She may just be reconsidering the Target items she left behind, she is making a grocery list in her head, or she is avoiding all the snacks because she restarted BBG (bikini body guide). Summer soon, you know?

(Brian doesn’t agree with my statistic and says way more girls watch than I think. If only he were so lucky as to have married one of them.)

Thank goodness I redeem myself during football season.

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A New Mom’s Letter to Her Babysitter

We don’t get date nights often enough, and I semi-blame the whole “finding a babysitter” fiasco.

Now that we are on our second child, our instructions to babysitters have become much more lax. Ultimately, we just want our kids safe and happy. A few years ago, however, my new mom hormones were TURNT UP. WAY UP. Had I written an actual note (a la my mom in 1992), it would have looked exactly like this:

Dear babysitter,

Thanks for coming over! Help yourself to any food (notice we bought the name brand graham crackers this week), and make yourself at home. My kids should be sleeping, so just hang out! Watch TV!

Except, try to avoid turning the TV volume higher than 12, because that will wake up my kids, but it’s okay if you have to because you don’t lip read as well as I’ve been forced to learn. If you would like to actually hear your show, you can just put them back to sleep after they wake up. They’ll lay down for you super easily.

All you have to do is this!

You’ll need to heat up a little milk (roughly between 4-6 oz) for my little one, for 45 seconds. He is particular. Shake the bottle. Test the temperature. He also likes his grey blankie to snuggle with, but make sure it’s not on his face. My other son can just get up and watch TV, but only one show and not for too long, and if you don’t understand what he is saying, try the Dinosaur movie, but fast forward the part where the dad dies. Along those lines, if he says something that sounds like “daddy,” it could mean daddy, Mickey, or blankie (full phonetically spelled translation guide on the side of the fridge).

But whatever! Just have fun! 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 !!!!!

Consult the attached pamphlet for numbers of my–

Pediatrician
Poison Control
My number
Restaurant’s number
Next door neighbor’s number
911’s number
Insurance agent information
Homeland Security
CPR instructions
Animal control
Living trust
Speediest SWAT responders (Don’t hesitate to call!)
Current shot records
Life insurance documentation
Last will and testament

We will be back in forty five minutes! Thanks!

–Ashton

PS Fire extinguisher is under the kitchen sink.

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HBD Brian / Sure Hope I’m Pregnant for Swimsuit Season / Those Two are Unrelated

What would President’s Day be without spending a few Jacksons? Or Franklins? Or even Washingtons?

I perused President’s Day sales online last night, and snagged a couple swimsuits. This led me to firing swimsuit-shopping-in-February inspired questions that Brian never knows how to best respond to. In order:

“Oh my gosh. I ordered swimsuits. Ugh, I feel so fat. Do I look bigger?”
“When am I going to finally take those hardcore classes I have a pass to?”Wait, have you seen my Food Network Magazine? It was just right here.”

He treated them as rhetorical questions, although I was concerned about the magazine. I found it this morning. Don’t want to misplace the special pasta edition.

Thank goodness those swimsuits en route are black.

My in-laws visited over the weekend, and even though it was Brian’s birthday, I felt like I got a break! A new MIL appreciation comes with having kids. She grocery shopped, played with my kids, and helped with laundry, all while I was working. I even slept until nine one morning!

Leila and Mark helped us celebrate with a fun dinner. Let this not be overlooked: at some point on Brian’s birthday, his festivities included doing a massive pile of laundry, and I came home to fresh, folded clothes.

That’s very telling of Brian. Laid back, practical, and nice. Really, really nice. He will quietly do ANYTHING for our family (or friends), and his selflessness is underrated.

I had no idea how right for me that twenty three year old boy was when I met him, and even though it took me two years to recognize it (and change his name from “Brian Creepy” in my phone), I can’t believe I caught him! With a lot of false advertising (like shaved legs and clean hair), and the help of Morgan and Stuart Peterson, I caught him.

Happy belated birthday, Brian. You’re our bestie.

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Feb 15: Valentine’s Day Split Personalities Explained

At the risk of offending self proclaimed feminists, I will go ahead and say that February 15 is the day that we girls collectively explain our optimistically erratic Valentine’s Day behavior.

I’ll go first.

This Valentine’s Day, I told Brian I didn’t care what we did to celebrate.

He interpreted that as I didn’t care what we did to celebrate.

Yes, I’ll admit it. I’m THAT girl. The girl that says, “I don’t care!” and genuinely mean it about 80% of the time. The other 20% of the time, it’s up to my husband to decipher what I really mean.

Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, etc are always in that other 20%. By, “I don’t care, whatever!” I mean, “I don’t care butyoubetterreadbetweenthelinesandmakeplansorcomehomewithsomethingbut really, whatever!”

Then, there are other girls, who are fine with their guy surprising them with Trader Joe’s flowers, until they’ve scrolled through social media for seven hours. A bouquet pales in comparison to the Ferrari that babiesburlapandbigamy had in her driveway, and Carolyn35 had her pool drained and filled with her favorite chocolate and a swan floatie. Even Brittany from high school had a gluten free cake served in freezable portions to accommodate her Weight Watcher’s diet!

Suddenly, those Trader Joe’s flowers make you wonder if your man even LIKES you.

Your single friend’s Galentine’s was more elaborately planned than your night, so now, you’re sitting at Outback with your date, nary a bloomin’ onion, furiously unimpressed. “Yeah, no, nothing’s wrong. This is great.”

I know better than to peruse social media on Valentine’s Day, and although I still tossed Brian my usual, suspiciously impartial attitude this year, we had SUCH a fun day.

We began the day with heart pancakes that looked like demented Mickeys. No one ate them, but I took a picture.

Gus went to his darling friend Ivy’s Valentine’s party, and it sounded like he was a little confused about his first ever play date without me. One day, he will be thrilled I left him alone with all these girls, and he will be even happier to know I squirted him with his daddy’s cologne on the way out for good measure. Thanks, Taylor and Ivy!

Brian maneuvered through my “I don’t care!” lies with wisdom of a seasoned (battle scarred?) husband. (For the record, I don’t hope for much, just SOME ACKNOWLEDGEMENT, which was established after my 2009 birthday.) (Ashley Furness was my date that night and let me know husbands don’t know what you want unless you tell them, which was news to me…and has only sunk in 80%.)

We stayed in this Valentine’s Day, and Brian cooked an amazing “adults only” dinner after babies went to bed. If you’ve never had a Brian meal, you’re invited over. I have a hard time eating meat since pregnancies, but Brian’s steaks are ridiculous. He made his own dressing for this pear arugula salad he made but wouldn’t eat, and I almost drank it.

Our dining was momentarily accompanied by background music of overtired Gus’s night terrors. After snuggling him for a while, I returned to my OG Valentine, enjoyed conversation, and went to bed early.

Food and sleep speak to my heart.

So, boys, let this serve more as an explanation than an apology, because history repeats itself, especially so long as your significant other has social media accounts and watches The Bachelor. Sleep well tonight knowing you have another twelve months to either figure out if your lady is a 20%-er like me, or save $75/month to get her Louboutins next year.

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Big day, friends. Big day.

A coupla things.

First of all, I’ve decided that I really enjoy writing in my closet. It could either be because there are minimal distractions, or because there is a really comfortable pile of laundry that I lean on. It’s like a Love Sac, you guys. It just forms right to you. Reason #28 why I’m never finishing laundry. #closetwriter

Secondly (which should be the real first, as it trumps my pants and socks swaddling me right now), everyone is feeling better! Gus’s ear is all recovered and normal, as I would sure hope it would be after $200 ear drops. Even though they’re hard to keep up with, I love my boys’ little personalities and energy back full throttle!

In other news, we bought a new car today! Well, not new. Used. New to our driveway. My favorite part of our new purchase is knowing how hard Brian’s worked the past eight years. That “working independently” route is a bumpy one. My being a financial contributor in our family makes me appreciate his work so much more. It’s tricky to balance the stress of both your home and job! I’m not a car person, but I’m kind of obsessed with Brian’s new purchase now, and so proud of him. It won’t feel like this car is really, officially OURS until one of my kids throws up in it, though, so I’ll let you know when that happens.

Brian has been shopping around for a little while, but I’m always sentimental about seeing past cars go. Brian has owned the same car the entire time I’ve known him. That’s the car that picked me up in for our first date! It drove me to my college graduation ceremonies, cosmetology school, and to the hospital to have both my babies. It’s the car I squealed in right after Brian proposed, and where I sat to call my out-of-state parents and telling them all about it. I don’t know, I have an emotional attachment issue. I’ll see you on Hoarders.

This evening, I thought we might celebrate our new addition by going out to dinner, but then I realized we probably spent all our money. Plus, Brian was busy. I don’t see him often these days!

That seems like a really stupid thing to type as I’m laying here in a pile of his clothes.

Wait, is this a diary entry? Is that what this blog is? An online diary? Just wondering, now that I’ve announced it on Facebook to an awkward pool of past boy-things and people who aren’t really my friends anymore…

The seven year old me, locking my Lisa Frank diary, would be mortified.

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I Either Smell like Aunt Linda or a Stripper

Ever since my family’s Park City girl’s trip a few months ago, I’ve been really into perfumes. That’s because my Aunt Linda, who is beautiful and always smells the way the glitter emoji looks, shared her latest dreamy scent with me. Here she is.

Now, I, too, smell like sparkles, even when trying to get everyone EQUAL cups and EQUAL drinks at lunch.

Have you read fragrance vocabulary? Whoa. Poetic people must always smell like my Aunt Linda.

“Its warm incense undertone lends it a dusky, somber quality, while the top notes reminiscent of freshly cut wood offer an interesting bright counterpoint. Although a beautiful and complex material, it is heavy and opaque, with a tendency to easily overwhelm other facets of the fragrance.”

That’s cool. My house has overwhelming top notes resembling a Costco box of diapers, with subtle notes of soiled ones, magnified by accords of bloated Honey Nut Cheerios that evaded the garbage disposal. The sweetness may give a robust floral fragrance.

I should bottle that up and call it, “Wednesday Mornings.”

In addition to Aunt Linda’s amazing perfume, I’ve been eyeing Prada Candy for a while. I’ve been second guessing it ever since I’ve had more than one stripper client rave about it, which seemed appropriate after reading it’s advertised description:

Prada CANDY is instantly seductive—pure pleasure wrapped in impulsive charm.

Definitely getting a different vibe than my “Wednesday Morning.”

Prada Candy, you’re a welcome addition to my mom-perfume curation.

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