Octopus brain was what I called my new mother-mind. After G was born, my brain patterns seemed to be completely different. Once singular or dual in focus, now I had neurons firing in multiple directions, reminding me of an octopus with a piece of brain on each tentacle. Did one part of my brain know what the other was doing? What I did know was I—and most mothers—unconsciously recorded an enormous amount of detailed information about our children. When needed, we could tell with stunning accuracy where to find toys or the nature and frequency of meals and bowel movements. We could interpret facial expressions and non-sensical words while still cooking dinner, changing diapers, talking on the telephone, discussing politics or other serious topics, driving cars, and being emotionally in touch with our selves, our partners, and extended friends and family.

When someone said a piece of her brain went out with the placenta, I thought she under-appreciated the Mommy’s octopus brain. My neo-cortex and hypothalamus were changed, but they had never been so busy. Almost all of the time I felt a mental intensity that was intellectually transformative.

In the height of a challenging moment, I sensed my Miss Octopus comparing parenting strategies, recalling my childhood experiences, examining the seriousness of the current situation, looking for insight, taking notes. This brain had greater potential than any previous iteration. Reaching and receiving all the time, often in eight different directions or more. Toward destinations varying from basic survival to enlightenment.

After all of those years of wishing and waiting, was I just so darned happy G was alive that I was eternally optimistic? Or was it the naturally occurring drugs of nursing? Breastfeeding’s hormones undoubtedly helped me keep calm and provided energy when I needed it most. I wondered if my perspective would adjust when G weaned.