Tales From the Mid-Life Brain Or The Woman Who Once Was "Mommy"

Happy Monday to you!

Now that we have the niceties out of the way, let me say that I think my brain is dissolving.

In case you didn't know, when you become peri-menopausal, your brain and body start to dissolve, mainly from exposure to the inexplicably high levels of natural gas you emit.

In fact, every time I bend, I remember that there is more than one meaning to the British signs along the trains: "Mind the gap." For real, there is a "Facts of Life" episode for every mid-life woman wherein she earns the nickname "Tootie."

I hardly recognize myself anymore. My kids want the mom back who never cooked well but did not ruin bowls of cereal as she prepared them. Currently, the only thing I am able to cook is marshmallows over a campfire and M&Ms in bowls because they do not require milk to be poured over them. In other words, if you have to add or mix an ingredient in any food, it is already too complicated for me.

My kids miss the mom who remembered their birthdays. They want someone who not only remembers a date but most importantly, buys a gift. Or two.

They want a mom who remembers whether or not they have had wisdom teeth extracted.

But apparently, that mom is no more. For I did indeed forget to buy the birthday gift two weeks in a row, and I had to confess to my son I could not remember if he had oral surgery, for Pete's sake.

Don't even get me started about senior pictures. I forgot I had a third child until about 20 minutes ago.

Recently, I sat sorting a box of beads I'm using for my new hobby: jewelry making.

Stringing beads. That screams "nursing home."

Anyway, as all four or three of my kids sat around me, I reminsced about when they were little.

"Just about every day, I read you this sweet little storybook called, 'We Help Mommy Every Day.' Do you remember that book? It began, 'We help Mommy every day. We help her in the morning, as soon as we get up.'"

It goes on to chronicle a day full of chores made lighter by little helping hands--sort of glorified child labor, and I was indoctrinating you, hoping against hope that you would think it was the epitome of both fun and goodness to dust a table and sweep a floor. Do you remember Bobby and Martha?"

My beads plunked into their compartments without a response from my kids. Unless you count expressions like this as a response:



So later, I was in the kitchen pretending to fix their lunch, and they were hanging out with me. Not helping, mind you, but hanging out, which is almost as good.

My son, Jordan, said to me, "Don't worry, Mom. When you are in the nursing home, we will come visit you every day. I will even read to you. Do you know what I will read?"

And then he launched into a familiar sing-song reading voice mimicking mine from so long ago:

"We give our kids our money every day. We give them our money as soon as we get up ...."

Oh, the orneriness. But what he doesn't know is that as clever as that brainwashing plan is, it won't work. Because I will not remember that I have kids by then - so who would I give my money to???"

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE???