Didn't I Used To Have A Brain?

Rearing children causes severe dane bramage.

Rearing children causes severe dane bramage.

I'm almost certain I have the proof positive right. . . right. . . here? Now, where did it go. I know I had it here somewhere.

It was amazing. A double-blind study full of all the science-y stuff that makes for really good newspaper stories and television news magazine half hours and . . . and stuff. You know? 

Well, whatever. I'm sure it will turn up sometime soon.

I'm as certain of that as I'm certain that . . . of. . . other stuff. Like. You know?

Right. Well. Anyway.

Moving on.

I thought about the whole dane bramage thing yesterday when I was driving along on Rama Road. Or was it Sardis Road? Maybe Idlewyld? Or. . . you know the road. It's in Charlotte? Goes a long way?

So I'm tooling along there and the cars ahead of me suddenly began stopping. I, of course, being the careful and attentive driver that ferrying around boys for 20 years tends to make one, didn't see it until the last second and slammed on the brakes. I skidded and rocked to a half with plenty of inches to spare before hitting the car in front of me.

Honestly, I don't know why that dude got out, all wide eyed, and started screaming at me. Really.

Well, he calmed down and slammed back into his car. Then we both had to wait.

"Ooooh," I said. "A train. Look! It's a train!"

Which might not have been indicative  of dane bramage had there been children in the car. Or, more specifically, young spawn, eager to see the choo-choo go chugging across the land.

There were, unfortunately, no children in the minivan with me. Even more unfortunately, the only other person in the minivan was a gentleman who's business I was attempting to convince that I was the guy he needed to write for him.

I fumbled through an apology, but he wouldn't hear of it. He is a father also and understands that the years of young-children-in-the-car tend to brand indelible changes on one's brain. The urge to find and then shout about trains being merely one of many long-lasting disabilities.

He, in short, understood. And, what's more, he shared his own moments of forgetting the spawn had grown.

Calling adult dinner companions over to the bushes near the restaurant entrance to see the really cool grasshopper.

Blowing out the red light while driving with the carpool during the morning commute. And then expecting a round of applause or astonished whispering from the rest of the crowd.

Grabbing a co-worker's hand to stop him from slurping soup that's really too hot. Then offering to blow on the spoonful of soup for him.

Answering any question, no matter how asinine, even if it's not directed at you, but is asked in your vicinity.

Telling anyone over the age of 11, "Good job." or "Good work."

Leaning over to your date during a foreign-language film and reading the subtitles out loud. Just in case they're going by too fast.

FSM knows I've been trying to weed these things out of my daily behavior, but it's a difficult thing to do. After all, I've been around three male spawn of our loins for more than 20 years and I've been pulling the same tricks and making the same jokes for all those times. Because, of course, I'm trying them out on different spawn as they grow older.
It's not an easy thing to toss out the good material.

If there's anything good to be taken from all this, it's that — eventually — we will recover. We will be able to watch a train go past and not point it out or speculate on the number of cars to go until the end and get everyone to say caboose because it's funny or make a train whistle, or. . . 

Well, you get my point.

We will recover and stop all that. Eventually.

Right around the time we're presented with the first grandchild and asked to babysit for just a few hours.