Mommybrain

At some point last night or early this morning I woke, sort of; glanced in the half-light at the head beside me (and a bit lower), and thought: "No, not you. You're not supposed to get any. Gerroff." And disturbed the poor innocent sleeping toddler whom I'd mistaken, in my befuddlement, for her big brother.

I used to do that a lot in the early weeks and months after she was born. I'd look down at the head in the bed and wonder whose it was - the big one or the little one? Sometimes I was half in a dream state and couldn't tell for quite a few seconds. It didn't really matter, I suppose, but if it was the big one, then where was the small one gone?

This is called mommybrain. When you're pregnant it's pregnancy brain - which almost cost us $600 in early cancellation fees of two phone contracts because I read "October" and understood "September" - and after you've had the baby, it's post-partum brain. But when the dust has settled and your hormones and brain cells are supposedly back to square one, it's just plain old mommybrain, and it's here to stay.

Mommybrain is the reason I always know where the small pink spotted sunglasses are, and where the plastic binoculars are quite likely to be, but managed to lose my favourite jeans for a week because I put them in a different drawer.

Mommybrain makes me cut the crusts off without being asked and inspect all slices of bread for (a) seeds and (b) holes before doing anything with them.

Mommybrain is what keeps me wide awake and ready for any action that may be needed at 3am, but falling asleep drooling on the sofa at 2.30pm every afternoon.

Mommybrain must have something to do with the way I can always remember the kids' names but never the adults'.

Mommybrain is definitely the reason the $20 cashback I got at the supermarket last week is still in the pocket of my other jacket, wrapped up in a receipt and a roll of coupons I'll never use, while I have a grand total of three singles in my wallet.

And I would very much like to blame mommybrain on the fact that the good sofa now has some purple accents courtesy of a small girl with a marker, but I must own up to the fact that it's really the fault of the Internet. Take that, Internet.

What have you blamed on mommybrain lately?