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A Day in the Life of My Mommy Brain

There's a 20-year-old teenager named Jace working the front desk at my local YMCA who definitely thinks I'm a moron, and I can't blame him. Last week, when he asked me for my last name during a simple parking token transaction, I hesitated. Like, for a while. Because I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember my last name.

Eventually, it came to me. But my pride was rendered officially irretrievable. And the fact that I just correctly used a five-syllable word without having to ask my husband or a stranger for help is nothing short of a medical miracle. Because I've got mommy brain, and I've got it bad.

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With a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old at home, I'm certainly not the first parent to accidentally brush her teeth with Desitin or put her cell phone in the fridge and the ketchup in her purse. But lately my momnesia has gotten especially embarrassing. One day I attempted to mentally count all of the times I misused or blanked on a word and I couldn't even keep track. So I decided to get some mileage out of it and try live-blogging a day* in the life of my Mommy Brain. The results indicate I should just slap an "out of order" sign across my forehead and say goodbye to mental clarity until 2030.

6:15 a.m. As I nurse our youngest, she scratches me with her pinky talon. "Ouch!" I yelp. "Your nails are wet!" The correct descriptor would be "sharp."

7:47 a.m. After playtime, I unknowingly greet the UPS driver with a Hello Kitty barrette clipped into my the front of my hair, in the spot where a unicorn's horn would emerge.

8 a.m. I ask our 3-year-old if she's enjoying her pretzels. She's eating a hard-boiled egg.

8:04 a.m. "No, you cannot have a jukebox," I tell her as she grabs a juice box from the pantry.

A baby starts crying and I frantically scan the trunk, petrified that I left our infant in there while we ate dinner.

10:35 a.m. I realize I have what appears to be a broken big toe—it's bruised, I can't bend it without pain, it hurts to walk, and I can't scrunch it up—with no idea how it happened.

11:20 a.m. As we cross a busy intersection in downtown Chicago, I spot a woman walking in the opposite direction and think she's carrying a baby. As she comes closer and I peer over to catch a glimpse of her wee one, I realize it's actually a case of Bud Light.

11:40 a.m. Hobbling around the park, I call the swings "the slide," a baseball "a basebat" and shoes "socks," all in alarmingly short order.

11:41 a.m. Oh, I've been walking around downtown Chicago with my nursing tank unhooked. Awesome.

12:30 p.m. Stop at the Dollar Store to buy Hot Tamales for a goodie bag project for my friend's surprise 40th birthday party. There will be 15 guests and I have 15 4-ounce mini Ball jars. Each box of Hot Tamales contains 5 ounces of candy. How many boxes should I buy? This might as well be Common Core.

4:20 p.m. After naps, I get our 3-year-old dressed in a shirt, socks and shoes. I forget to put on her pants.

4:21 p.m. Once the pants have been put on, she changes her mind and wants to dress up in her Spider-Girl costume. I agree to let her wear it to Target. As we walk into Target, she asks me, "What will people say when they see me?" My reply: "They'll probably say, 'Wow, what is Supergirl doing in Costco?!'" Basically, the only thing I got right was my vocal inflection.

4:45 p.m. I describe a shirt as "orange" instead of "pink."

5 p.m. In the checkout line, a gossip magazine informs me that a famous star has passed away. He lived from 1931 to 2015. "Challenge yourself," my inner psychotherapist tells me. "How many years was he alive?" I arrive at the number 89. Feeling pleased with myself, I mentally double-check myself. Ha.

5:50 p.m. Time to meet a friend for dinner. The Mexican restaurant is exactly one mile away but, because I'm so dumb, I decide to use Google Maps on my phone to help me get there. I inadvertently type in the wrong destination and, even though I know we're only supposed to be driving a mile away, we drive three miles in the complete opposite direction until we arrive at a ramshackle, "Breaking Bad"-esque car wash in the middle of nowhere.

7:13 p.m. Time to load the girls in the car after dinner. I set the baby down in her car seat on the ground on the left side of the car, then buckle the big girl in on the right. Before returning to the baby, I open the trunk to throw the stroller in. A baby starts crying and I frantically scan the trunk, petrified that I left our infant in there while we ate dinner—even though she sat on my lap throughout the meal, eating guacamole and medium-grade taco meat out of my hand. (Spoiler alert: The crying was coming from our baby, but she was still in her car seat on the ground, right where I had left her.)

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8:30 p.m. "I could really use a glass of wine," I tell my husband, once the kids are in bed. Finally, a sentence with zero mistakes.

*A combination of work, spontaneous "Where's Prince Eric?"-related tantrums and sleep deprivation conspired to repeatedly throw me off course, so this is actually a compilation of a few days' worth of MB.

Image via yourecards,

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