Mom Brain After Thirty Years of Caregiving: The Tuesday My Brain Filed for Independence

Before we start, a disclaimer from the management. Everything in this post is a composite. Names, dates, and appliances have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the freezer. Any resemblance to my actual family is a coincidence, or at the very least a very well-lit alibi.

I promised you funny, and I am a woman of my word, which is impressive, because I can’t always tell you where I left my word. I’ve been a mother for more than thirty years, and neurodivergence has been part of my life and daily routine for more than twenty of them. That is a very long time to be keeping track of appointments, medications, routines, preferences, who needs what, when they need it, and the exact brand of cracker that can apparently determine the fate of a Thursday. Somewhere along the way, my brain quietly hung a small, hand-lettered sign on its door. It says NO VACANCY. It’s a little crooked, because I couldn’t find the tape. 

If you’re the mom of an adult neurodivergent child, you already know this brain. It has tabs open that you did not open. It runs a background program called ‘Is Everyone Okay?’ that cannot be closed, and that leaves about eleven percent of its battery for everything else, like names, nouns, and the location of the glasses currently resting on your head.

So pull up a chair. I’m going to walk you through one Tuesday. A composite Tuesday, assembled from every Tuesday that ever tried to take me out. I’d tell you it was the worst one, but I can’t remember which one that was.

Exhibit A: The Tuesday My Brain Filed for Independence

This is a true story in the sense that every single thing in it has happened to somebody, and I’m not naming names, because I can’t recall them.

6:41 a.m. — The Coffee Situation

I start the day the way every great civilization begins: with caffeine. I scooped the grounds. I added the water. I pressed the button and listened to the machine start gurgling with a smugness I can only describe as earned. I was thirty seconds into congratulating myself on a flawless morning when I noticed the carafe, sitting in the dish rack. Dry. Innocent. Not involved.

Coffee went everywhere except where coffee goes. The counter drank some. The floor drank some. The machine, I’m told, still has opinions. I stood in a puddle of my own optimism and said, out loud, to no one, ‘Well. That’s one.’ It was 6:44. The day was three minutes old.

7:20 a.m. — The Keys in the Freezer

I was leaving for an appointment, and the keys were gone. This is not unusual. What was unusual was the thoroughness of the search. The counter. The coat pocket. The other coat pocket. The bag. The other bag. The couch cushions. The suspiciously quiet space under the couch cushions. I even checked the car, which I’d like to point out is the least likely place for keys to be when I am standing inside the house.

Friend, they were in the freezer. Next to the peas.

Here’s the part that makes it art: I put them there on purpose. Past Me, a confident woman with a plan, thought, ‘I’ll put them somewhere unusual so I’ll definitely remember where they are.’ Past Me was very proud of that. Past Me and Present Me are no longer on speaking terms, and honestly, Present Me understands.

8:45 a.m. — The Phone I Was Holding

The pharmacy called. Or I called the pharmacy. The details are lost to history. What I remember is that I was on the phone, in the middle of a perfectly polite conversation about a prescription, when I needed to write something down and couldn’t find my phone.

So I said to the pharmacist, very pleasantly, ‘I’m so sorry, can you hold on one second? I can’t find my phone.’

There was a pause. Then a young man, kindly, in the voice of someone who has taken this call before, said, ‘Ma’am, I think you’re on it.’

I looked at my hand. I looked at the phone in my hand. I looked at the pharmacist, who was not in the room, and nodded at him anyway. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what I was about to say.’ Later that same day, I used my phone’s flashlight to search the house for my phone. I’d like that on my tombstone.

10:15 a.m. — The Appointment That Wasn’t Today

I arrived at the dentist’s office on time, composed, holding my insurance card like a woman who has her life together. The receptionist looked at her screen. Then she looked at me, with the particular gentleness people save for someone who might be about to laugh or about to cry, and said, ‘Your appointment is next Tuesday.’

I checked my calendar. It said next Tuesday, in my own handwriting. I had written it down perfectly. I had simply not read it. She offered me a glass of water, and I’m fairly sure she was also quietly checking whether I had a ride home. I’d like to thank her for her service.

I sat in the car for a minute. Then I laughed so hard that a man walking his dog crossed the street.

12:30 p.m. — The Milk Situation

I went to the store for milk. Just milk. A single item, easily held in the mind of an adult woman with a college education.

I came out with a rotisserie chicken, two kinds of pickles, a candle that smells like ‘Pumpkin Pie,’ a shower curtain, and a bag of the good crackers, because I’m not an animal. I did not have milk.

I did, it turned out, have milk at home. I discovered this when I put the groceries away and opened the refrigerator to find two full gallons staring back at me. I had apparently bought milk on Saturday. And Sunday. We now had enough milk to open a small dairy.

Then there was the parking lot. I could not find the car. I stood there pressing the key fob like a woman trying to summon a dragon. Three cars blinked at me. One was very close to mine in spirit. None of them were mine. I walked the entire lot, a sad little marathon, and finally found my car exactly where I’d left it: thirty feet from the door, in the one spot I’d walked past four times.

3:00 p.m. — Name Roulette

By afternoon, the part of my brain that handles names had apparently clocked out. I called my husband by my father’s name. I called my child by the cat’s name, then the cat by my child’s name, which at least felt fair. At one point, I looked directly at an actual human being and said, “Alexa, where are my shoes?” He looked at me, sighed, and found them. We have never discussed it. Which is probably for the best, because we don’t even own an Alexa. 

5:30 p.m. — Dinner, Allegedly

Dinner is where a woman with a plan meets a woman with a brain. I had a plan. The plan involved chicken, a vegetable, and a pot of water I put on to boil with great confidence at 5:30. At 6:15, I found the pot, dry as a desert, with a spoon in it, and no memory of ever having intended pasta. The smoke detector, who is the only member of this household who always notices me, offered a review.

My husband walked in, sniffed the air, and said, very carefully, ‘Are we ordering in?’ This is the sentence of a man who has been married to me for eleven years and has learned that the right answer to a smoking pot is a question, not an observation. We ordered in. I forgot what we ordered. When it arrived, I was surprised, delighted, and slightly suspicious, like it was a gift from a stranger.

Somewhere in there, I also stood in the pantry for a full minute, searching for a specific box of crackers, only to realize I was holding it. I gave it a long look. We have, at this point, an understanding.

9:00 p.m. — The Text I Answered in My Head

Late in the evening, I remembered that someone had texted me. Three days earlier. I’d read it at a red light and responded, at length, with warmth, exclamation points, and a thoughtful follow-up question. In my head.

In the real world, that woman has been waiting for my reply since Saturday. I’m sure she assumes I’m either extremely busy or dead. I’ve since written her four more replies, each one better than the last. None have been sent. If you’ve ever texted me and not heard back, please know that I love you, and that the best message I’ve ever written you is currently stored somewhere no one can reach.

And as a final flourish, I walked into the kitchen with enormous purpose. I stood there. The purpose was gone. I opened the refrigerator and stared into it like it owed me an explanation. It did not. It did, however, contain so much milk.

Pearls of Wisdom Mom Brain isn’t a character flaw. It’s a hard drive that has been running for over thirty years without a single backup. Be nice to it. It’s doing its best, and its best to put the keys next to the peas.

Honorable Mentions From the Mom Brain Hall of Fame

Not every moment gets a full chapter. Some of them just get a plaque.

The time I told a waiter ‘you too’ when he said ‘enjoy your meal.’ He was very gracious. He is still, as far as I know, enjoying his meal.

The time I put the cereal in the refrigerator and the milk in the pantry, which, in fairness, was a bold life choice.

The time I carried a basket of clean laundry from one room to another and came back with an empty basket, no clothes, and no explanation.

The time I went upstairs for something, came back down with something else, and neither thing was the thing.

The time I looked for my glasses for ten minutes while wearing them, took them off to look more carefully, set them down, and lost them again. It was a two-act play.

The time I told someone, with total authority, that I’d ‘send that right over,’ and then spent the next three weeks sincerely believing I had.

The time I stood in the driveway, certain I was forgetting something, and then drove away without a single item I’d needed. I did, however, bring my own coffee mug on the roof of the car. It made it two blocks. It was a good mug.

The time I put my phone in the refrigerator and my sandwich in my purse. I have never been so confused by a lunch.

The time I started telling a story at dinner, forgot the story mid-sentence, and announced to the table that I was ‘in the middle of a story,’ like a woman who’d left the oven on in her own mind.

Why This Keeps Happening (According to Me, Not a Scientist)

I’m not a doctor, a neuroscientist, or anyone with a clipboard. I’m a woman who has put her keys in a freezer. That said, I have theories, formed over two decades of research conducted entirely in my kitchen.

It’s Not a Defect. It’s a Full Inbox.

Here’s my working theory. Nobody’s brain was built to be the project manager, the scheduler, the pharmacy liaison, the snack inventory, and the emotional weather report for an entire household, all at once, for decades, without a lunch break. Your brain isn’t broken. It’s overbooked. It’s an airport with one air traffic controller, and she’s doing her best, and a plane just landed on the runway where you were trying to park your keys. 

Every task I’m carrying has a tab open. Most of them are tiny. All of them are running. And somewhere around Tuesday, the machine starts to wheeze.

When You’re Carrying Two Brains’ Worth of Information

If you’re parenting an adult neurodivergent child, you aren’t just remembering your own life. You’re holding theirs, too: the routines, the preferences, the appointments, the medication timing, the sensory dos and don’ts, the specific cracker. You know which days run heavy, which foods are safe, and which store has the lighting that doesn’t hurt. That’s not a small amount of information. That’s a second brain’s worth of data, stored in your first brain, and your first brain was never told it’d be doing this.

So no wonder the keys end up in the freezer. The keys didn’t have a seat at the table. The cracker did.

What Actually Works (A Short List From a Woman Who Has Tried Everything)

I’ve tried the elaborate color-coded system. I’ve tried the three planners. I’ve tried the gorgeous notebook that lasted nine days. Here’s what has actually survived in my house.

Everything Gets a Home

Keys go on the hook. The phone goes on the charger. The glasses go on my face. The rule isn’t complicated, just stubborn. The thing goes in its home every single time, even when I’m tired, even when I’m carrying groceries, even when a little voice says, ‘I’ll remember.’ The little voice is a liar. The little voice put the keys in the freezer.

One Calendar, One Place, No Exceptions

I used to keep appointments in my phone, on a paper calendar, on a sticky note, and in my head. Now they live in exactly one place, and my husband can see it, which gives me a second set of eyes. The dentist incident does not happen as often anymore. I said as often.

Say It Out Loud, or Text It to Yourself

If a thought matters, it gets out of my head immediately. I text it to myself, I say it to my husband, or I write it on my hand like a teenager. A thought that lives only in my head has a life expectancy of about four minutes.

Let Someone Else Hold Part of It

This ties right back to asking for help. You don’t have to be the only keeper of every detail. Share the calendar. Share the list. Let someone else be the one who remembers the pharmacy. You were never supposed to be a single point of failure, and a household with a backup is a happier household.

Pearls of Wisdom A system you’ll actually use beats a system that looks beautiful. The best calendar is the one you check. The best hook is the one you actually hang the keys on.

What You Can Say When you blank on someone’s name: “I know exactly who you are and I love you, and my brain has just left the building. Remind me?” When you forgot something and someone is annoyed: “You’re right, that’s on me. Can you text it to me so I don’t lose it again?” When you walk into a room and forget why: “Don’t worry about me. I’m just going to stand here until the purpose returns.” When someone asks if you got their message: “I answered it beautifully, in my head. Let me try again in the real world.” When you need to say this to yourself: “My brain isn’t broken. It’s full. I’m going to be kind to it.”

The Part Where I Get Serious for Exactly One Paragraph

I laugh about all of this because laughing is how I survive it, and I’d encourage you to do the same. But I’ll say this once, plainly: if the forgetting ever stops being funny and starts being scary, or it changes suddenly, tell your doctor. Humor is a wonderful coping tool and a terrible diagnostic one. Okay. Back to the freezer.

The Last Joke Is on Me

Here’s the part that really gets me. At 3:07 a.m., my brain, which had been completely unavailable all day, suddenly came online. It handed me the pharmacist’s name, the dentist’s phone number, the combination to my seventh-grade locker, and an absolutely brilliant idea for a blog post. I lay there in the dark thinking, ‘Oh, that’s good. I’ll remember that.’

I did not remember that.

If you’ve seen it, it was very good. It was possibly my best work. It’s gone, and I’d like to formally apologize to everyone who would have loved it.

That’s Mom Brain, friends: the only brain in the world that is perfectly clear at 3 a.m. and completely unavailable at 3 p.m.

Mother. Of. Pearl. If you’ve ever put your keys in the freezer, you’re among friends. Laugh about it. Then go find your glasses. (Check your head.)

Next time: the 3 a.m. brain. Why the mind that was useless all day suddenly turns into a wide-awake filing cabinet in the dark, what actually keeps so many of us up at night, and what helps when it just won’t shut off.