Friday, October 7, 2011

Pregnancy Brain

So, I have a condition. It's called Pregnancy Brain (or PB, for short). I've been blaming this disorder for just about every mis-step I've stumbled through these past five years. Was I pregnant all five years? Um, no, but then I was able to just lean on Mommy Brain and people just solemnly nodded their ascent as to why, yes, I am an idiot at times. Luckily, I was able to start my life with Blonde Brain (sorry to all lib's who're ticked I'd insinuate something so demeaning) and thanks to Loreal, I'll be able to use that as much as possible.

But the part that ticks me off is the fact that Papa bear does not have any of these impairments. Oh sure, he can be clueless at times but there's no diagnosis for that besides that darn "y" chromosome but how come there isn't Balding Brain or Snoring Brain? I'd even take a Marriage Brain for goodness sake. Why do I have to carry all of the burden (and embarrassment)?

I bring this up because of a series of events that just took place yesterday evening. I was preparing a healthy nutritious meal for my cherubs (basically, forgot I had to feed them until about 5 and opened the freezer and picked out what was the least frost-bitten). Put some popcorn shrimp in the oven and brown rice on the stove. I even boiled up a few carrots for Vitamin A. Done and done. Mother of the stinkin universe. I even find the motivation to clean off the countertops and knock back a cold Sierra Mist.

All is well in my organized world until I go to grab a pan off of my pot rack the following morning. Instead of the pan, I grab a box. Inside the box? The rest of the shrimp that somehow didn't get put back in the freezer the night before. Huh. Okay, everyone does stupid stuff like that. I move on. Later on, I go to grab a pen out of the basket on the top of my frig and pull down the once-cold butter stick from last night's rice. Oh. Um. Okay...I've read some recipes call for room temperature butter. I was just, um, being prepared. Moving on a few minutes and Ava bear screams at me that I should've forseen that she is parched and practically dying of thirst so I open my frig to get out some water and out falls my mint chocolate chip ice-cream...that I had, um, put back in the frig overnight.

At this point, I'm totally convinced that my husband has hired a garden gnome to go behind me and make this crazy mess of my life just to screw with me. Papa bear might not have a formal brain diagnosis attached to him but that's probably because the gnome does most of the thinking. I just wish he'd do a bit more cleaning.

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