No time to do the dishes

Every day, at least 459 times, I hear this demanding chant: Mamalook! No, sadly, it's not some Inuit term of endearment, it's one or both of the small fry requiring me to quit focusing my eyeballs at whatever task I'm attempting, and just LOOK LOOK at how amazing they are - Mama, Look, I just stepped in cat barf! Mama, Look, at the ladybug I just squished! Mama, Look, I can pick my nose with my tongue! And really, what mama isn't both proud of and fascinated by all things her kids can do? Beginning from the moment they emerge, we catalog all the essential accomplishments a living being is capable of; the first poop, fart and gummed Cheerio are recorded ever so satisfyingly in our memory banks. As they grow and learn to wipe their own bottoms, they continue to require our constant attention, because they've learned so early on that they are the center of the universe. And so it continues, on into adolescence, young adulthood and beyond, stopping alarmingly and shockingly only if and when they become parents themselves.

But I'm wondering if a study can't somehow be undertaken on the mama brain, to show how our synapses have become manic and frizzled from constant interruption, like Robin Williams on a bad hair day. It's a genius kind of behavior modification when you think about it. Just imagine what the untrained mama would do if she inhabited the life of her children. She might wander off to her room to play by herself for a while, or spend some time in the bathroom examining a really deeply imbedded toe wart. Or maybe run outside joyfully, hair blowing behind her, screaming "Hey Kids! Look! I'm going out for a walk!"

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