Or, who stole my mind? I have what can only be described as a chronic case of mom brain. I’m not talking the forgot-what-I-went-upstairs-for, paid-a-bill-late, left-the-kids-school-lunches-sitting-on-the-kitchen-counter-all-day kind of mom brain, I’m talking full-fledged, jaw-dropping, how-does-she-even-keep-her-children-alive mom brain. It’s a problem.

Last year alone, I locked my keys in my truck not once, not twice, but five times, having to be bailed out by my less-than-amused husband on each and every occasion. On a weekly, that’s right, weekly basis, I miss the turn to the stable where my daughter takes horseback riding lessons and have to turn around in the fire department cul-de-sac, to the slightly more amused stares of the firefighters, who by now surely have a collection of colorful nicknames for the habitually lost mom in the blue truck.

I wrecked my husband’s new truck the first time I drove it, backing it straight up into the neighbor’s car, and followed that joy ride up with backing his tractor straight into the garage door, smashing both door and tractor. No, he hasn’t filed for divorce yet (beside the point, but I know by now you’re wondering).

Here’s the kicker--my daughter, my first-born, is ridiculously with it. This kid begins planning her next birthday party the day after the last one’s over. She gets up at the crack of dawn to get a head start on her schoolwork for the day, and while she’s at it she lets the dogs out and starts her own laundry, all before I’ve even cracked an eyelid. She even asked me to share my Google calendar with her so that she can make sure we’re staying on schedule.

I’m convinced that this little mini-me, cute and innocent as she may seem to the average Joe, stole my brain. She reached her tiny little fetus hand right on up, whipped out the sections of my cerebrum responsible for organization, memory and common sense, and yanked ‘em out with her at birth. Don’t find that feasible? Need further convincing? Consider this.

Back in the B.C. years (you guessed it, before children), I was the most Type A person you’ve ever met. My house was so clean that one friend admitted to me she never invited me over to hers for fear of being judged. I was the person co-workers called to double check meeting times and places, old reliable. In college, 10 minutes early to every class, I was the overachiever my professors could count on to make the others look bad when no one else completed the assignment. Back in the B.C. years, I had it all together.

Now here I am, grateful that I was born with the ability to laugh at myself, and even more grateful that my husband was born with the ability to laugh with me, because after 10 years I’ve finally accepted that this new entertaining, if inept version of me is here to stay. In the end, if I have to share my brain with someone, I’m glad it’s my schedule-coordinating, birthday-party-planning, backseat-brake-hitting daughter. As long as she keeps relishing her role of keeping the family on track, I’ll keep letting her. The way I see it, being a mom-brained mama is just another sacrifice we moms make in the name of motherhood, and hey, there’s no shame in that.