The Curious Case of Incoherent Babbling

I love being an adult...I really do.

While marathon "Bob the Builder" stints are de-facto around here and I don't really mind, the chance to actually run a brush through the ol' mane and wipe the crusted mascara from underneath my eyes every now and then is something that gets the ol' blood flowing.

I had a chance to go to a fancy restaurant this week and talk tech. No, really. I was contacted through my food blog to perchance cover a new wine application this great business had developed, and with P's blessing, I jumped at the chance. Nay, I threw myself head first at the opportunity to put on pants with no elastic and an unstained shirt.

The only problem was that I hadn't had much time to practice my "adult conversing" skills. Most of my daytime talk includes "No!" or "Get offa that!" or "I swear to God, Boo...". When P and I get the chance to get a few sentences in undisturbed, it's usually centered around jiu jitsu or MMA and contains more than one "F bomb" or off-color remark. Not exactly the sort of small talk one makes over the top of a fancy wine glass.

That night, I was talking to one of the place's managers and he asked the innocent enough leading question "so where else do you and your husband like to eat in Anchorage?"

Whaaaaa?

Visions of the occasional Happy Meal flashed before my eyes.

No, that doesn't count, does it? What about the chinese take out we get from Panda? That's a real restaurant, right? Would I sound like a moron if I waxed poetic about the delicious zinfandel I drank last month with the greasy fried rice and hunks of mystery meat?

I was stumped for about three minutes, honest. I finally remembered a joint I'd covered for the newspaper (yeah, remember that job I had FIVE years ago??) and spit it out. Too bad, I learned, it had closed last summer.

I stood, slack jawed and staring into the left corner of the tiny room while my brain searched for an eating establishment P and I enjoyed that did not feature a color-on kids menu or waiters that 't sing birthday songs off key if requested. I had nothing.

My new friend mercifully guided the subject to the only thing I'm able to converse about lately: my kids. I regaled him with tales of wrestling tournaments, first "bad" words, and endless diapers.

But I drove home with that sinking feeling: when had I turned into uber mommy who only spoke the language of the sleep-deprived and developmental milestone obsessed?

And then I got home. And the husband was happy to see me and told me all about his night at MMA. And the baby was wiggly and smelled like that pink baby lotion. And the toddler had cried without me that night, and while that's not cool...it's always nice to know when you're missed. To the point of tears. Awwwwww, right?

Lucky for me, the tribe whose language I've adopted is an adorable one. Who can argue when you're fluent in cuddly baby and precocious two year old? When you can still enthrall a seven year old? When you're husband talks shop with you and you can keep up?

Not I, my friend.

Not I.