Missing: My Brain

I miss my brain.

I miss conversations where I had something to offer other than a floaty, under-water feeling, a blank mush that used to be my frontal cortex that can no longer be counted on to fire. I watch and listen to adult activity and think, “Do something now,” but my brain is on strike. “Ya talkin’ to me?” I smile gamely, hoping some version of my former thoughtfulness becomes available. But all that remains is blank space.

Conversations aren’t the only challenge. There’s also the grocery store trip where I come back with everything but the crucial ingredient for the recipe. Or I go online to order a prescription and instead answer a bunch of meaningless e-mails and log off—no re-fill.

I should be making a list, getting organized, knocking things out. Instead, I’m sitting glazed over, watching the world pass me by.

Last night, I sat with Little Sister as she clung and drooled all over Big Brother’s book. I attempted to defuse his annoyance before it escalated to outrage: “Why does she always ruin my stuff?” This was supposed to be the sweet time of the day. At least that’s what the older parents keep telling me in the grocery line, as my kids twine themselves around me while I try to extract my wallet. Regularly, wistfully, the older parents inform me how much I’m going to miss these tender years.

But there’s nothing pleasant about trying to prevent Big Brother from pulling out Little Sister’s hair, or buying him off with promises of a new book tomorrow. Just go to sleep now so I can get off Damage Control Patrol. I made it through by picturing the glorious two hours that I would have today, all to myself. I never imagined I’d be sitting here immobile, like a sticky lump of playdough.

Maybe it’s from eating only brown and orange-colored food for oh, about three years: Goldfish, graham crackers, hot dogs, mac and cheese. Don’t forget those peanut-butter crackers that are nothing more than fancily packaged sodium.

Or maybe my brain has gone on strike from the sheer monotony of my work as a sandwich-maker/ sponge-mopper/ shelf-stocker, of having my musical repertoire reduced to a tune sung off-key by a fuzzy red creature. “La-la-la-la, Elmo’s World.”

What makes it worth losing my mind like this?

I return from my un-productive alone time and peek in on my children. Brother has his arm around Little Sister, “reading” her a story as he flips through the heavy pages of his cardboard book. He doesn’t seem to notice the drool dripping off her chin, only that she’s gazing up at him, pouring adoration out of her toothless grin.

My world cracks open. The sky is raining love.