In recent days I’ve had a series of brainless moments. For starters, as many grad students do, I’m currently doing some TA work (translation: assignment marking) for a CAD class. I regret agreeing to this, but that’s another story.
It is kind of funny I was assigned to the CAD class considering the CAD program I learned during my undergrad is no longer in use, and I’ve done very little computer drafting since my undergrad. It’s ok though. It turns out expertise is not required to follow a marking guide.
Anyway, as all the undergrad engineering students are required to take this class, it’s divided into four sections. The marking is split between the TAs each week. We rotate sections in case one of us is too much of a softy while another might be an asshole (or, you know, in case one of us has no idea what she’s doing). Thus, we make sure the unfairness is divvied equally among the students.
Last week, I went to the drop box to pick up the Section 1 assignments it was my turn to mark. I picked up the three folders, read them, and proceeded to bring one home. Days later, when I finally sat down to do the marking, I realized I had brought home Section 2. Crap.
Luckily for me, the TA assigned to Section 2 was happy to swap sections this week—and he must be at least as much of a procrastinator as I am because, though days had passed, there had been no query sent out regarding his missing marking. All in all, this was no big deal. What bothers me is how clearly I remember picking up the folders and deliberately reading each. How the hell did I walk away with the wrong one??
Oh well, just one of those things.
Then that night, or maybe it was the next night (wherever my focus went it took my sense of time with it), when it came time to feed the cat, I noticed her water was low. I picked up the food and water dishes, emptied them, refilled them, and put the food dish back down.
Notice what’s missing? The following morning, my husband pointed out the water bowl still sitting in the counter.
No problem you say, can’t the cat just hop up on the counter? In theory yes, and five years ago no doubt she would, but she still hasn’t figured out she can jump over the baby gate down stairs (and escape the tail grabbing hands headed her way). I think. with age, she may be losing confidence in her jumping skills. On the bright side, I think she can still reach the water in the toilet. Either way, she survived the night without her water bowl.
Make that just two of those things.
Next we have the mystery bruise I found on my leg in the shower. We’re not talking one of those thumbnail-sized, reddish marks that appear regularly on the shins of anyone who owns a coffee table (or is that just me?). This is a fist-sized deep-purple welt on my outer thigh. Aside from having zero recollection of how I got it, no matter how many times I ran through the day in my mind, it’s far too high up to blame on the coffee table.
Dinning table? Nope, also too low.
Breakfast table? It’s round.
Counter? Too high.
I even showed it too my husband and asked what in the house might be this height. He too was at a loss. Then something caught my eye:
The baby gate! I walked over to it and…yep, those knobs are exactly bruise height. I still don’t remember running into it, but I must have been running fast. Probably after a tiny human hell bent on practicing his skills on the stairs. He can navigate them pretty well if he turns around and goes down backwards, but sometimes he wants to do it the way Mom and Dad do. If only he’d tell us which method he has in mind as he barrels toward the stairs.
Ok, we have the folder mix up, the water dish, and the gate smash followed by amnesia. These mind gaps must happen in threes. I’m good to go now.
So there I was, playing with the toy trains (the tiny human was there too) when I heard my husband’s voice utter a disheartening “Oh, no.” I knew he was taking laundry out of the dryer. I didn’t really want to know what clothing-related catastrophe had occurred, but went to see what the deal was anyway.
Mysterious black streaks all over the dryer, and of course all over the clothes that were in the dryer. At first, we thought a black pen must have gone through the laundry. I was all set to be annoyed with my husband for this one since I don’t put pens in my pocket. Even if I did, I almost always use those bic four-colour pens. If it were my pen that had gone though, we’d have had a multicoloured mess on our hands. Strange though, the load seemed to consist mostly of my clothes and baby clothes. Nothing of Husband’s with pockets. Hmmm. Then I saw my grey sweater (with pockets) and it hit me.
Here’s the thing: Kiddo loves to scribble, as evidenced by the variety of ‘art projects’ coming home from daycare covered in crayon. I finally bought him some crayons so we could share this fun at home. Unfortunately, he also loves to eat the crayons. Thus constant vigilance is required during scribble sessions. Add to this the tendency of round wax sticks to roll and fall to the floor. They break easily, into nice bite-sized pieces I am regularly grabbing and making disappear. Sometimes into pockets.
“They are washable, maybe if I run the load again…” offers Husband.
“I guess,” I say, looking sadly over the new pair of onsies and the handmade baby blanket smeared in black, not at all convinced that washable label will hold true after baking in the dryer for forty-five minutes. But what else was there to do?
Believe it or not, the clothes came out of wash round two crayon free. Holy shit, Crayola, you’re washable crayons really are washable (no, Crayola didn’t pay me to say that, but if they offered I’d totally take the money, or a lifetime supply of free crayons). I rejoiced. And immediately went out and bought these:
The triangle-shaped crayons advertise that they promote proper grip. Yeah whatever, you had me at ‘won’t roll off the table and break into baby-bite-size bits’. You may notice, however, the yellow one is already broken. This took one day. There is no crayon shape to defend against being pushed from the table. Also, when I went to take this picture, I couldn’t find the blue one. Here’s hoping no blue surprises await me at the changing table.
I’m certain I had at least one other brainless gem to share, but can’t for the life of me remember that it was. Go figure.