My brain has been increasingly scattered lately. Scattered to the point of immense frustration. This second pregnancy is especially hard on my cognitive presence. There are moments when I feel I should not be left alone – like the time I flooded our entire coffee bar in more water than I would like to admit. Or yesterday when I scheduled my hospital tour over Chipmunk’s swimming lessons while I was staring at it in my planner. Better yet, the time the garage door opener compartment in my car broke. I hit it several times with no luck. Panicked (yes, panicked), I ran through my options. The keys to the front door weren’t on me. Husband was home so I dialed his cell, hopeful he would open the garage door for me. His phone rang…and rang…and rang. All the while, Chipmunk was in the backseat impatiently yelling, “Up! Up! UP!” As if I could not process his demand, a fair assumption, wild arm movements accompanied his orders. “I can’t!” I pleaded back. “It’s broken. I can’t open the door. It won’t go up. I can’t!” Because arguing with a two-year-old always goes well.
Then it hit me like that proverbial ton of bricks: I could indeed open the garage door. Mortified, I disconnected the call just as it proceeded to voicemail, opened the remote compartment, and pushed the button with my bare hands. Apparently folks, the way I opened garage doors for a decade before this car was too much for my shrinking brain to handle.
Chipmunk ceased his incessant cries as I shifted the car into drive and parked in the garage. Husband greeted us as we walked in the house, his silenced phone in his hand and a questioning look on his face. Why had we called? he inquired. “Lie!” the embarrassed sector of my psyche screamed. “Lie, lie, lie! The two-year-old can’t speak well enough to rat you out. LIE.”
But you guys. I can’t lie. I can’t lie when I am not pregnant. In fact, at this point in my life, I am brutally honest. My brain, the one that had just farted all over the driveway (quaint, no?) could not even begin to shape a story – let alone a conceivable one. So I told Husband the truth. And instead of laughing, he slowly shook his head and left the kitchen. I’m not sure which reaction is more insulting, but it is important to note that I rendered my husband speechless.
Sissy, sweet girl, you certainly are tough on me. I hope you’re storing up that stolen intelligence for one heck of a future.