A long time ago, in a kitchen far, far away…
Actually, it was five years ago, and the kitchen was in my old house, about two miles from where I’m sitting now. Yeah. I’ve really gone places.
All I had to accomplish was one phone call. My daughter, S, was sick. Who knows what she had, but I had a newborn, a sick kid, and an addled brain that had been ravaged by a constant barrage of Disney and unanswerable questions. (People think Mommy Brain is hormonal, but have you ever considered the collective brilliance that would come from the world’s population of moms if they no longer had to come up with intelligent answers to “What color is a princess’s fart?”)
But back to my phone call. It was to the doctor’s office. I’d called to make an appointment.
Receptionist: OK, I’ll just need your daughter’s date of birth.
Me: January 5, 2009.
Her: OK…I’m sorry, could you repeat the date of birth?
Me: (Ugh, why do I always have to repeat this?) January 5, 2009.
Her: I’m sorry, I’m not seeing it.
Me: Well, she’s been a patient there since she was born. I’m sure it’s in there.
Her: OK, repeat the birth date one more time.
Me: (UGH!) January 5, 2009. (Screaming on the inside.)
Her: And you’re sure about that?
Me: (Um, yeah. I was kind of there when it happened.) Yes. Of course I’m sure.
Her: It’s just that we don’t have a record with that birth date.
Me: You have to! We were just there like a month ago for her well visit!
Her: I’m sorry, ma’am, let me check again. So you said the birthday was?
Me: January 5, 20–Oh my gosh. Wait. I’m sorry. I–I have to go.
Her: But ma’am–
Me: I’ll call you back. Oh, forget it. I’m sorry. My brain is mush. January 5 is my dog’s birthday.
So yeah. I spent five minutes insisting that someone else didn’t know what they were talking about because she couldn’t pull up my daughter’s health records with my dog’s birthday.
This is the definition of mommy brain.
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