Dear Oz, all I want for Christmas is…

You know that part in The Wizard of Oz where they’re all asking for the things they most desire? The Tin Man wants a heart, the Cowardly Lion wants courage, blah blah blah. And wittle Dorothy just wants to get home. Nobody seems to realize that the poor Scarecrow is stuck without the one thing that makes all of those other things possible – a brain.

Dude, I sympathize.

I lost my brain a few years ago. I’d really like it back.

Don’t get me wrong. I mean, having children and suddenly becoming a prime candidate for the Airhead of the Year Award has its perks. It gives me a sort of quirky charm, and people let me brush off a lot of the dimwitted things I do with nothing more than a shrug and a smile.

But come on.

Being brainless is also a massively underestimated pain the ass. Just tonight, I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth (about 3 hours after I should have been ready for bed; I had spent those erstwhile hours reading inane news stories online and being nagged by the sensation that I had a really great blog forming somewhere in the back of the ol’ gray matter). After going through my bedtime routine – which involves gathering my current reading material, setting alarms (yes, plural…you try waking me up!), moving one kid out of her sister’s bed and the other kid out of mine, etc, I settled into bed feeling quite bushed. As I ran through a mental checklist, I nearly burst with pride. I had somehow managed to complete everything I needed to do before shutting my bedroom door, a feat which I might add, almost never happens.

So I got comfy, still shaking my head in disbelief, and picked up one of the four books I’m currently reading. (Yes, four. Calling me ADD wouldn’t be entirely uncalled for.) It was at this moment, perhaps in salivatory anticipation of the reading goodness I was about to delve into, that I ran my tongue over my teeth.


How was it possible, after everything I had accomplished and, recalling a vivid memory of entering the bathroom with the sole intent of brushing my teeth, that I had somehow not brushed my teeth?

The wonders never cease.

I can’t honestly recall a time in the last five years when I shut my bedroom door and didn’t have to go back out again. That’s over 1,800 failed attempts to get ready for bed. Minimum. Likely many more, considering the nights when my failed attempts topped out at 3, 4 , or 5 in a single evening.

So, yeah. What I’d really like for Christmas is a brain. Maybe my new brain could remember exactly why I sat at the computer for three hours tonight, convinced I was going to blog. (Don’t call it a premonition. That’s giving me far too much credit.)

Something tells me Santa doesn’t really dole out brains in peoples’ stockings, though. (A general glance at society should prove that theory correct, am I right?) So I suppose I’ll just ask for something much more attainable – like a book, a new bottle of perfume, or a nice scented candle. My husband would tell you I have too many of those things already.

He’s right. I just can’t remember where I put them.