Foreign language was never my strong suit. I took two years of German in high school and all I can remember is how to count to 10, “guten tag” and “ich habe die nase vol!” (“I’ve had it up to here,” for all of you non-German speakers) – sorry Mr. Brown. They say emersion is the best way to pick up another language. I’d have to agree. Turns out that after spending three years in a home with a baby (and then another), I now fluently speak mommy. The problem is, as I’m sure happens to other folks who are bi-lingual, I’ve been finding myself intertwining the two languages when I don’t mean to. The other night my husband was tenderly removing his sock after he had injured his foot and I asked him, totally seriously, “Oh, is that your boo-boo?” “My boo-boo?” he asked, laughing at my choice of words. It took me aback because it just rolled off my tongue – I called a grown man’s wound a boo-boo. Drink anyone? My husband, who I lovingly call baby, gets called buddy (my pet name for Brogan) pretty frequently nowadays; I refer to funny things he and I do as silly.
Oh and my favorite – I’ve told one of my co-workers that I needed to be excused to go potty, uh um, I mean, use the restroom.
It seems these days that “pregnancy brain” is a well-recognized ailment that has probably been substantiated by some sort of scientific research. But what about “mommy brain”?? At least in these parts, it doesn’t carry the same prestige. And while not as acute as it’s cousin “pregnancy brain,” this condition may actually be worse because it’s terminal. I feel confident that the kids have seriously sucked away some of my finest brain cells and I fear that I will never get them back.
Okay, perspective. It could be worse. At least I don’t speak my 21-year-old self in front of the kids. And after all, as is true with all the other perplexing and sometimes humiliating situations the kids put you in – it is always worth it.
Well it’s late and I’ve got to be up again in 6 1/2 hours – night-night everyone.