Blame It On My Brain

There’s these terms like “Pregnant Brain and “Baby Brain” and “New Mommy Brain” and so on that basically describe how once you have another life form completely dependent upon you – your normal human brain shuts down and your intelligence is basically rendered useless.  I’m told that you’re supposed to get used to it and gain all of the functions of your brain back, but my youngest is one, and I’m not so sure that it’s true.

During my pregnancies, not only would I chug two gallons of milk a week, make terrible decor choices, run to the nearest bathroom and violently throw up every time I sniffed something “offensive” (cooked meat, peanut butter, kitty food, etc), but I also did stupid things.  And said stupid things.

My most embarrassing New Mommy Brain moment?  Rembot was three days old.  We were at home, I had slept a total of 10 hours in the past four days (holla at me, 24 hour labor!), and I had serious brain fog going on.  Our good friends Anna and Matt came over to see Rembot.  They brought flowers for me and pink clothes for Rembot and nothing for Jack, because, seriously?  It wasn’t his birthday and he didn’t spend an entire DAY trying to make a human emerge from his… never mind.

Anyway, we were all hanging out in the living room, but Rembot needed to nurse, so Anna accompanied me to my bedroom and we chatted while I (again) tried to figure out the whole breastfeeding thing.  When Rembot was done nursing, Anna went to the kitchen to make me some tea, and I carried my sweet little Rembot out into the living room.

Jack and Matt looked at me.  Strangely.

Jack:  “Umm.. Roo?”
Roo:  “What?  What’s wrong with you?  Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jack:  “Your.. shirt?”

I looked down.  And guess what?  I wasn’t wearing one!

Standing in the living room in front of Jack and our friends in my yoga pants and bra.  Awesome.

And by awesome, I mean… someone hand me a noose.

I stammered.  I grabbed Rembot.  I rushed back to my room, put on a t-shirt, and came back out profusely apologizing.  And Jack?  He was laughing at me.  Nine months later, Matt and Anna had a baby, and I politely asked Anna if she would emerge from her bedroom wearing only a bra and yoga pants so I’d feel a little better.  She declined.  So selfish.

Anyway, you know what this made me think about?  When I was about eleven, I was sitting on my bed, getting ready to go to sleep, and my mom came into my room wearing a long silk nightgown and a matching robe.

“You know, Roo, when I was your age, I’d curl my hair, moisturize my face, and wear a nice nightgown before going to bed.”

I wiped my nose on my sleeve.  “Why?”

“Because, what if the house caught on fire and we all had to run out?  I wanted to be presentable at all times.”

“Oh.  That’s dumb.”

“If you had to run outside right now, would you be proud of your appearance?”

I looked down.  I was wearing Tigger boxer shorts, one of those beaded bracelets that you make at church camp, and a pink t-shirt with glittery peaches all over it.  My mom bought it for me when she was on a business trip in Georgia, and the peaches were scratch and sniff.  Which, if you think about it, was probably invented by some depraved soul.  Scratch and sniff t-shirts, really??  Sounds like a high school principal’s nightmare.

“No.  I guess not.”

My mom is a Filipino Blanche Deveraux.  I kid you not.

I dismissed her theory as being stupid, until three years later.  I was in my karate class, and I had just slumped to the floor, clutching my ankle in pain.  I had landed on it the wrong way, and ended up spraining it.  My instructor was 25, and he reached for an Ace bandage.

So, for the mathematically challenged (that’s me), I was fourteen… and I wasn’t allowed to shave my legs.  (I’ve since rebelled.  Sorry, Mom.)  My instructor flipped up the edge of the pant leg on my karate uniform, and I cringed.  Inches of fur all over my ankle.  Seriously, he was basically wrapping an Ace bandage around a Saint Bernard.  Embarrassing.

And since then (and again since the “Hi friends, this is what my bra looks like” incident) I’ve had my mother’s haunting words in my head.

Getting dressed in the morning.. hopping out of the shower and pulling on my clothes…
What if I go to the bank and a bank robber comes in and makes us all take our pants off because he wants to make sure none of us are armed?  I should go shave my legs.

What if I get into a fiery car accident and the outer layer of my clothes are burned off?  Would I be embarrassed that my undergarments aren’t matching??

WHAT IF I wear the Spiderman boxer briefs I was gifted after I sent out Rembot’s baby announcements, because one well-meaning relative misunderstood the announcement and thought we had adopted a 13 year old boy?  And then I black out because my blood sugar is low, and then the paramedics think I’m an irresponsible adult because I’m wearing superhero boxer briefs and a pink camisole?

Moral of the story.  A stitch in time saves nine.

Wait, that’s not right.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure!

Actually, I don’t think that’s right, either.

Umm.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?
Never bite the hand that feeds you?
Rome wasn’t built in a day?
I whip my hair back and forth?

My brain.  It’s broken.