Why sweat pants and a two year old do not go together.

At least once a day I usually end up doing the dishes, vacuuming, or flossing my teeth with my underwear and sweat pants down around my ankles.

Hmmm....I wonder if that has anything to do with all the strange old men hanging around my house lately.

Is motherhood making me stupid? Yes. I don’t know…wait…what was the question?
Yes, I do believe motherhood is making me stupid. Stupidier. Stupided. Stupiding.
Whatever.
My brain is turning to mush.
Not too imply that before my egg was fertilized I was a genius, or even highly intelligent. But I was doing okay for myself. I could carry on a conversation about things other than baby measurements, car seats, and diapers. I spoke about topics other than how to puree baby food, the difference between a diaper rash and a rash caused by teething, and music that didn’t involve sentences about big red cars or trot ol’ Joe. I would never have had a conversation with someone about breast engorgement, nipple blisters, or C-section scars.
But today, the above is all I know.
The only type of news I’m able to follow and understand are entertainment stories. If you want me to read another uninteresting article about Jennifer Garner, fine. It’s simple, easy, mindless. Perfect for me. Ask me to read something about politics, science, or…something else a smart person wrote and you’re asking too much. You’re asking for a miracle, because I know those articles have words with more than six letters. That’s A LOT of letters!
I may be able to subsist (somewhat poorly) on five hours sleep but that’s the only miracle I’m performing these days. Unless you count getting my daughter dressed while she’s practicing jumping; when I see her in a diaper, shirt, AND pants I admit I do feel like a small miracle has occurred.
But back to my shrinking brain.
I can no longer do math.
I tried to multiple 12 by 7 the other day and I found it challenging.
“Ok seven times two is…right 14 and then… 14 times…no…oh right! Carry the one and then…” Was how it went for many many minutes.
I also tried to figure out what our down payment would be on our new house—in my head.
Big mistake. Because it actually hurt my head. I was in pain.
Speaking proper English has become…difficult.
I say ‘gotta’ way too much and the other day I said a sentence to my husband that made me sound like I had been raised by white trash wolves. I can’t wait for my daughter to start school so that she can teach me how to properly structure a sentence again.
“Where does the noun go? Why do I need a preposition? What’s wrong with a double negative?”
My imagination is virtually gone.
I rotate three meals now for dinner. By 5:00 pm I am so tired that to come up with a meal that is nutritious, tastes good, and is relatively simple to prepare is ludicrous. So I alternate. One meal a week is nutritious. Another one tastes good. And the remaining one is simple.
My husband has begun to refer to them by color.
When my husband attempts to have conversations with me about things other than poop, the park, or the Wiggles I’m lost. Really, it’s like he’s speaking a whole other language.
Sometimes I can't help but become irrated with him when he tries to have a conversation with me. Is he doing it on purpose? Is he trying to make me feel stupid? Does he think its funny to watch my expression turn to one of complete panic when he brings up a subject that involves complex thoughts? Why does he speak to me with so many words? Why isn't he singing to me about flowers and ponies?
I want to yell at him, "Can't you see my blank stare! Don't you see the drool running down my chin? I no speaky proper English!"
But hopefully if I just play along for a little while longer my brain will start to get the hang of it. Maybe it will even start to grow big again.

My eyes shifted a millimeter to the right and my heart stopped. In the mirrors reflection I saw a man and woman walking towards me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the man. It was Him. My man. Well, he had been my man. Many, many years ago. And now here He was.
Nooooo! This was NOT how it was supposed to be. Nothing that was happening this very minute was supposed to be happening. He was the one and only person I had ever had the ‘run into’ fantasy about. And everything was wrong. Nothing was right. For one, in my fantasy I had showered recently. And I was supposed to be wearing one of my fantasy outfits. This changed depending on my mood but I had finally narrowed it down to one outfit—a silk green top I had bought years ago (in reality this shirt was a little itchy and didn’t hang right on me but in my fantasy it looked as it had on the mannequin. It showed plenty of non-plastic cleavage, did not give me a rash, and gave me a perfect glowing complexion). Depending on the weather I paired this either with a short somewhat whorish skirt or a pair of fabulous jeans that made my ass look great and my legs four feet long. In my fantasy I was wearing makeup, I had brushed my hair, and was not covered in chocolate, peanut butter, or snot.
Oh and I had no rolls on my tummy! Very important part of my fantasy.
My eyes jumped back to my reflection and I took in what he was seeing.
It wasn’t good.
It was actually very very bad.
Imagine someone showing up at your house unexpected. No warning. No preparation. No chance to create that false sense of reality that outsiders saw.
What would they find?
Would your house look like it belonged in Vogue Living or would it look like it belonged in one of those Oprah episodes where she has someone go out to your house and insult your lack of cleanliness? Would your child be wearing an immaculate princess or sailor outfit complete with combed hair, clean hands and face? And while looking like a cherub will they have taken a reprieve from the whole hitting, throwing hard objects, spitting, and crying phase that seemed like their favorite phase EVER?
Or would they find the real you; the way you really live?
Would there be dirty dishes in the sink and perhaps even on the floor? Would your diaper garbage pail be full of smelly diapers? Would your perfect little cherub baby in fact be covered with food residue, tears, and only content with slapping your face? Would all their toys be put neatly away in that cute wooden chest you had painted or would they be scattered everywhere? And would the (I’d never let my child watch it!) television be on in a vain attempt to entertain your child so you could…breath for a few minutes?
And what would you look like? I know I know. The image makes your shudder.
Well that’s what I looked like right now. In front of Him. And the very pretty, clean Her with Him.
Here’s what they saw.
Me. Looking like absolute hell.
But it got worse.
Let’s go back five minutes so that you can appreciate the full extent of how much worse it truly was.
I had come to the store knowing that it was a bad idea. But I had planned on only being inside long enough to buy my husband some much needed new underwear. I knew my daughter was against the idea with every being of her body but my husband was desperately in need of underwear that didn’t look like it had cleaned the floor, been set on fire, and cut with scissors in a drunken rage and since my daughter was generally against doing anything that didn’t involve a sand box or slide I figured I’d just run in and out. Five minutes top.
But then I had seen it. And it was gorgeous. I was instantly in love. And I could tell it felt the same way about me. It was fate. Truly it was.
So I broke my own rule. Well rules actually. I bribed my daughter. With chocolate! And I let her not only sit on the stores floor but also put a hanger into her mouth. And I’m pretty sure she was playing with an old piece of gum that was stuck to the carpet.
But I had to (had to!) try my beloved on. At first I had tried to take my daughter to the fitting rooms but she had plopped herself down in front of a mirror and was happily banging away on it with the wet hanger and so I thought…well why not.
So with a glance over my shoulder and confirmation that no one was around I removed the garment from its hanger and with an apology put it on over my dirty t-shirt.
It was amazing. The color was a soft mauve and the white lace trim was so delicate and pure. I’d never seen anything so perfect (oh—I mean besides my daughter I’d never seen anything so perfect). And it was so soft, it felt like…like water feels as you slide into a hot bath (remember taking those?). I couldn’t stop running my fingers over the fabric it had been so long since they’d touched something so clean.
And that’s when I’d seen them.
I shifted my eyes back to my reflection and took it all in. My daughter sitting on the floor, her face a chocolate mess, banging away on the mirror and screaming some song only she knew the words to. And me in my mom jeans, my stained t-shirt with the beautiful bra over it; and my hands…groping the bra, which meant I was groping my boobs.
Again--in front of Him. And Her.
I stopped rubbing my fingers over the exquisite creation (or my nipples and I imaged they were thinking) and slowly turned towards them.
“Oh…wow…hi.” I said with what I hoped was a normal smile as I reached behind me and unclasped the bra. I slid the bra down my arms and folded it up small in my hands hoping to make the whole situation disappear.
They returned my smile but I could see through their politeness. It was their eyes. I saw fear, concern, and confusion. And a little disgust as they glanced down at my daughter.
“Oh!” I reached down and pulled her away from the mirror that she had been making out with, leaving behind a brown slimy mess.
When I did this my daughter reached out with the speed of a cheetah and the strength of a bear and ripped the crumbled bra from my hands.
“No honey! Give mommy.” I grabbed her chocolate hands and tried to unclasp them but she’s a tough little thing and by the time I finally got it away from her we were both a sweaty messes. And my beautiful clean bra was no more.
I noticed that neither one of the audience members had said anything yet. They were just taking the drama in as it unfolded.
“So how you’ve been?” I asked as I bent over and searched though my purse for a diaper wipe.
“Oh yea…I’ve been—“
“Ow! Honey! Don’t hit mama. Mama loves you. Be gentle. Gentle. Ha.” I said casting a sideways glance at the frowning duo.
“Do you have any kids?” I asked trying to dodge my daughter’s very UNgentle slaps.
They both shook their heads no.
And then I heard him mumble “Thank god” and She laughed.
“Oh they’re not that bad.” I said defensively. “When they’re yours its different.”
“Right.” He said.
“So you’ve been good?”I asked again.
“Oh yea. I’m running the—“
“No! Honey. Ick! No touch. That’s gross old gum. Ick ick.” I said as I reached down and picked my daughter up.
“So gross.” I heard Her mutter.
I was about to say something but then my daughter leaned over and gave me a kiss.
“Oh mommy loves you.” I said as she said her version of I love you (la la la) back.
I looked up and smiled at Him and Her, expecting to see appreciation in their eyes for what they had just witnessed. But there was none.
“Well it was great chatting with you.” He said as they both backed up.
“Yea…nice—“
“Ouch! Honey remember no hit. Pat gentle.” I said to my daughter who was no longer giving out kisses or I love you’s.
I looked back up to finish saying good bye but they were gone. Back to their childless world.
And me back to my child filled world.
“I wouldn’t trade you for anything.” I said to her and I quickly put the dirty wrinkled bra back on its hanger and hung it behind a robe. I looked at my daughter and she looked at me with a smile.
And then spit a little piece of chocolate at me.