Baby Brain
It’s mildly terrifying, but I’m getting close to being a mother of two. I have seven weeks or so left before my baby boy is due, and even though I’m not at all ready, I think this birth needs to happen sooner rather than later. If I’m pregnant much longer, I think I will officially be a Stupid Person. I hate Stupid People.
My four-year-old son is now telling everyone who will listen that his mommy has “Baby Brain.” I forgot to bring something to school the other morning, and My Little Sunshine informed his teachers that his mommy has Baby Brain, and that sometimes her head gets clogged up like a toilet. Even a four-year-old who remarkably still thinks I’m pretty cool can see that my IQ is dwindling to a very dangerous level.
Take today, for example. I woke up with a cold. Well, that’s not exactly true, since there was no sleeping happening in my world last night. I was lying awake with a cold and then got out of bed with a cold when my son woke up this morning. I already felt like shit. I really didn’t need any help to feel worse.
Note that the Stupid Factor affects this equation at many turns, so feel free to count up the many ways I screwed up. Make sure you shake your head and roll your eyes as you count.
Apparently, at some point, I had placed a gigantic bottle of olive oil on top of the refrigerator. Thing is, I have absolutely no recollection of putting that bottle of olive oil up there. I am overly safety-conscious, and that seems like a really unsafe thing to do. My husband says he didn’t do it, and I know our four-year-old didn’t do it, so that leaves me. I’m the one with Baby Brain. I don’t remember putting it up there, but I do remember thinking once this week that it shouldn’t be there and wondering why my husband put it up there in the first place (again, he didn’t do it). I could have taken it down the moment my mind accused my husband of putting it up there. I didn’t. My Baby Brain was concentrating on something else, and multi-tasking is not a good idea for Stupid People.
My father-in-law moved the bottle back several times this week when he noticed it teetering on the edge of disaster. I’m sure he wondered why the hell it was up there, too, but he didn’t judge. He just moved it to safety and went on with his day.
This morning, I felt like I had been hit by a bus. I am as big as a bus right now, but as far as I know I was not in a fiery bus crash overnight. I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention when I went to the freezer to get some ice. I closed the door and started to walk away. When I heard the crash, I honestly had no clue what in the world what could have fallen. Could it have been the bottle of doggie tranks? No, that would not have been nearly messy enough. Could it have been the dog’s leash that had been missing for months? No, that would have been too convenient. Could it have been the leftover Valentine’s Day candy? No, that wouldn’t have had a chance with the cranky pregnant mama.
No, no. Apparently, the Karma Police were paying me back for some serious Karma Violation. It would have been bad enough to have to clean up the gigantic oil slick that coated my kitchen. I’m seven and a half months pregnant, people. That is not pretty. It would have been bad enough to clean up a million shards of glass caked in extra virgin olive oil. Believe me, my fingers felt every little bit of Karma Retribution.
No, siree. I had to clean up the oil slick, the million shards of glass, and then deal with the really big problem: the broken glass stovetop. Yep. The olive oil bottle crashed onto the stovetop and bounced, causing two impact gashes and many little spider legs. I knew immediately this was going to seriously impact the diaper budget.
Welcome home from Uruguay, honey. I’m sure you missed all the stupidity flowing freely from your pregnant wife. Especially the variety that costs you hundreds of dollars.
After spending way-too-long on the phone with the company that sold us the stove, I had to call a service company. The woman on the other end of the line there clearly was not a native English speaker. She had a decent enough grasp of English, though, to gather that I was completely screwed. “Bummer,” she said after I explained what I had done. “That’s not going to be cheap,” she elaborated. I know. I know. I know, lady. I don’t need you to rub it in. I know I’m screwed. Just tell me how badly and when it’s going to happen, so I can be mentally prepared.
Bottom line, my Baby Brain is going to cost us more than $400 (this week), and we will be without a stove for approximately two weeks. That’s an expensive mistake. I can think of a million other ways to spend that 400 bucks. A million.
I really need my baby to cook (in my belly, not on my stove), for a few more weeks. I’m sure his lungs could use some more growing. The nursery isn’t finished. The car seat isn’t installed. However, I think I may need to be locked up or at least put on mandatory bed rest until this baby is ready to come out. This level of stupidity is not safe. I am a danger to myself and everyone around me. I need my IQ back. One of my friends told me that it was gone forever. I am terrified that she might be right.
My four-year-old son is now telling everyone who will listen that his mommy has “Baby Brain.” I forgot to bring something to school the other morning, and My Little Sunshine informed his teachers that his mommy has Baby Brain, and that sometimes her head gets clogged up like a toilet. Even a four-year-old who remarkably still thinks I’m pretty cool can see that my IQ is dwindling to a very dangerous level.
Take today, for example. I woke up with a cold. Well, that’s not exactly true, since there was no sleeping happening in my world last night. I was lying awake with a cold and then got out of bed with a cold when my son woke up this morning. I already felt like shit. I really didn’t need any help to feel worse.
Note that the Stupid Factor affects this equation at many turns, so feel free to count up the many ways I screwed up. Make sure you shake your head and roll your eyes as you count.
Apparently, at some point, I had placed a gigantic bottle of olive oil on top of the refrigerator. Thing is, I have absolutely no recollection of putting that bottle of olive oil up there. I am overly safety-conscious, and that seems like a really unsafe thing to do. My husband says he didn’t do it, and I know our four-year-old didn’t do it, so that leaves me. I’m the one with Baby Brain. I don’t remember putting it up there, but I do remember thinking once this week that it shouldn’t be there and wondering why my husband put it up there in the first place (again, he didn’t do it). I could have taken it down the moment my mind accused my husband of putting it up there. I didn’t. My Baby Brain was concentrating on something else, and multi-tasking is not a good idea for Stupid People.
My father-in-law moved the bottle back several times this week when he noticed it teetering on the edge of disaster. I’m sure he wondered why the hell it was up there, too, but he didn’t judge. He just moved it to safety and went on with his day.
This morning, I felt like I had been hit by a bus. I am as big as a bus right now, but as far as I know I was not in a fiery bus crash overnight. I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention when I went to the freezer to get some ice. I closed the door and started to walk away. When I heard the crash, I honestly had no clue what in the world what could have fallen. Could it have been the bottle of doggie tranks? No, that would not have been nearly messy enough. Could it have been the dog’s leash that had been missing for months? No, that would have been too convenient. Could it have been the leftover Valentine’s Day candy? No, that wouldn’t have had a chance with the cranky pregnant mama.
No, no. Apparently, the Karma Police were paying me back for some serious Karma Violation. It would have been bad enough to have to clean up the gigantic oil slick that coated my kitchen. I’m seven and a half months pregnant, people. That is not pretty. It would have been bad enough to clean up a million shards of glass caked in extra virgin olive oil. Believe me, my fingers felt every little bit of Karma Retribution.
No, siree. I had to clean up the oil slick, the million shards of glass, and then deal with the really big problem: the broken glass stovetop. Yep. The olive oil bottle crashed onto the stovetop and bounced, causing two impact gashes and many little spider legs. I knew immediately this was going to seriously impact the diaper budget.
Welcome home from Uruguay, honey. I’m sure you missed all the stupidity flowing freely from your pregnant wife. Especially the variety that costs you hundreds of dollars.
After spending way-too-long on the phone with the company that sold us the stove, I had to call a service company. The woman on the other end of the line there clearly was not a native English speaker. She had a decent enough grasp of English, though, to gather that I was completely screwed. “Bummer,” she said after I explained what I had done. “That’s not going to be cheap,” she elaborated. I know. I know. I know, lady. I don’t need you to rub it in. I know I’m screwed. Just tell me how badly and when it’s going to happen, so I can be mentally prepared.
Bottom line, my Baby Brain is going to cost us more than $400 (this week), and we will be without a stove for approximately two weeks. That’s an expensive mistake. I can think of a million other ways to spend that 400 bucks. A million.
I really need my baby to cook (in my belly, not on my stove), for a few more weeks. I’m sure his lungs could use some more growing. The nursery isn’t finished. The car seat isn’t installed. However, I think I may need to be locked up or at least put on mandatory bed rest until this baby is ready to come out. This level of stupidity is not safe. I am a danger to myself and everyone around me. I need my IQ back. One of my friends told me that it was gone forever. I am terrified that she might be right.
Labels: Pregnancy
