Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day

Monday morning last week was a low spot. At breakfast, I was reading 9-yo’s weekly Friday newsletter. I learned that he was to take to school a cardboard box covered in brown paper, with doors cut in the front to make it into a wardrobe, for a fun class activity about the book they’ve just finished (guess which book). I decided I had just enough time to cover the Cheerios box with a piece of brown paper, and set to. I had realized that the decision meant that 12-yo would be the teensiest weensiest bit late (middle school starts 15 minutes earlier than the lower school), but I thought punctuality should be sacrificed to wardrobe creation. 12-yo was getting more and more agitated, and finally revealed that he’d been given a nickname on the basis of his repeated late morning arrivals. If you get three tardies, you get detention. I pointed out that he can’t have had three, as he’d never had a detention, and I said I didn’t feel two tardies in a term was all that bad.

“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”

“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”

And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.

It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.

From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.

So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?

Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.

It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).



So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.

ONE.

Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.

I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.

Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.

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