I woke up to find, I've undergone a “mommy lobotomy”
By Shauna Strusel
Before I had children, I was brilliant. I could have an adult conversation with anyone and discuss a plethora of topics; literature, politics, international finance and the latest research on anything. I was the glasses wearing, hot girl at the party sipping a glass of wine (although, to tell the truth I always preferred wine in a box; I like wine that requires me to peel a straw and stick it in the tin foil covered hole – no Juicy Juice for me…Winey Wine). Before I had children, I could have a little “witty repartee” with anyone I met. That was before the kids.
I am afraid to say, things have changed. Sloanie has inspired a whole new “Mommy lingo”; for example, “Don't blow your nose on the lettuce!” then there's, “Take the pacifier out of your bottom!”, oh and don't forget, “Don't touch the dog's . . . DON'T TOUCH THE DOG THERE!” Poor Oscar was less than thrilled with the toddler who had just “violated” him. It's awfully hard to chastise her when I am laughing so hard I can't breathe.
There are sentences I never could have imagined saying when I was young and single in the city. “Don't tinkle on the carpet!” “A diaper is NOT a hat!” “Eggs are NOT finger-paints!” “Dust bunnies are NOT a healthy snack!” “Please stop letting the dog share your ice cream!” (I guess she was trying to make amends for befouling him earlier.) “You HAVE to leave your dress on at church!”
When I was pregnant with Sloan, I convinced myself that I would never be the type of woman who abandoned her mind for current events for the mommy brainwashing I had witnessed with so many of my friends. I don't know if I was deluded or if it was just the intoxicating effect of pregnancy hormones. I have decided those hormones are responsible for more than one of my tragic disillusions.
Fast forward four years and now I am the yawning, mascara running, sleepy woman in the corner, boring everyone with tales of potty training, pink eye, and colic. Scintillating banter regarding the current political scene has been replaced with, “I was in labor for 18 hours…and don't even get me started on nursing.” I went from brainy to boring; I went from fabulous dinner companion to cutting my husbands meat; which was so embarrassing to Scott, he encouraged me to start taking one night a week off.
I am hoping to one day resume my ability to carry on an intelligent conversation regarding any topic other than diapers, child birth and the molestation of pugs that runs rampant in our home. Since, however, I had to impress upon Sloan that an onion ring is not a hair bow as recent as last night, I think the “return to glib” may take a little more time than I originally planned.
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