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When Mom Brain-Slash-Pregnancy Brain Attacks!

Candy's Column

When Mom Brain-Slash-Pregnancy Brain Attacks!

The only thing worse than Pregnancy Brain, I’ve discovered, is Pregnancy Brain compounded by Mommy Brain.  You just never know what I’m going to do next these days, meaning:  Get your valuables and breakables out of my reach.  Because I may inadvertently eat them.  And not realize it until I’m screaming in agony in the bathroom the next day.  Even then, I’ll probably just chalk it up to pregnancy hemorrhoids.

Hello there, my childless readers!  Aren’t you just CLAMORING to get knocked up now?

Two weeks ago, Baby Freedom demanded a chicken fajita, so we skedaddled to a nearby Mexican restaurant — where I was dipping my chips in Skye’s container of Cheerios for a good minute before I realized why, exactly, the “salsa” seemed to be so bland.  Tasteless, in fact!  SO ridiculous.  I mean, why can’t my child be a fan of a good chip-dipping cereal?  Like Frosted Flakes.  Geesh.

Yesterday was a particularly banner day for my feeble mind, beginning with me finding the dishwasher detergent in the refrigerator (Hey, Skye!  Care for a Cascade smoothie?) and ending with me ruining my iPhone and new purse (Hey, Skye!  Look away while Mommy blubbers like a baby!).  I had taken Skye out to eat after daycare, thinking we could enjoy some lovely mother-daughter bonding time, only my nap-deprived daughter had an entirely different vision in mind.  One that involved her screaming like a banshee because I wouldn’t let her dump frozen yogurt on her head.  I’m a stickler, I tell ya.  In my rush to get the hell out of there and escape our fellow patrons’ accusatory “Are you murdering that kid or what?” stares, I instinctively grabbed my purse and threw Skye’s sippy cup and my bottled water in there.

Then I saw it:  THE CAP to the water bottle.

The just-opened water bottle.  In my brand new leather purse.  Oh yes, I did.

In a matter of seconds, the bottom of my purse — not a particularly, um, cheap one (sorry you had to read that, Mr. Candy) — was drenched.  My iPhone…?  DEAD.  Deader than Hugh Hefner without his Viagra IV drip.  I keep trying to resuscitate it in hopes of recovering the adorable cell phone pics I’ve taken of Skye the past few days — you know, pictures in which she’s not doing her best banshee impersonation — but I’m getting about as much response as I would from Hugh Hefner without… yeah, okay, you know where I’m going with this.

At least,  I hope somebody does.  Because I totally forget.

Now pass the Cascade, would you?  I’m thirsty!

Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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