BEFORE I had kids, I prided myself on being a person of average intelligence — now, I’m not so sure. I could put my diluted intellectual capacity down to spending most of my time talking to children, not adults, but given my five-year-old had to inform me yesterday, as I moved a pot off the hob, that a wet towel conducts heat faster than a dry towel, I think it’s safe to say if anything, he is the one sharpening my mind, not the other way around.

As a younger person, I loved a lively debate as much as the next idealistic third-level student, and enjoyed nothing more than debating the benefits of neo-liberalism in a post-colonial society. Now, I can honestly say I’m just too tired to argue with anyone who isn’t below the age of six and refusing to go to bed, and even at that, the odds of me winning such a verbal combat are slim.

Am I the only one who feels I have metamorphosed into a silly goose since becoming a parent? Talking to friends, I think there seems to be a general malaise of forgetfulness and all-around absent-mindedness that sets in after having kids. There are simply too many plates spinning to attempt to remember the important stuff, like who Franz Ferdinand was or what Vogue Williams’s third child is called.

A few weeks ago, I bumped into a woman my age, whom I have known since we were teenagers — a woman who always puts me to shame with her impeccable style and ability to pull off mom jeans with panache, even during the luteal phase.

But on this day, Dingle’s answer to Gwyneth Paltrow was hurrying past me in a bid to locate her keys, which she had misplaced in the supermarket. “I never used to lose anything,” she said, bewildered, and I couldn’t help but see myself in her incredulity.

The truth is, I am in the same supermarket virtually on the daily, usually having also mislaid something important like my keys, my wallet, or my two-year-old.

I told her I, too, had turned into a bit of a bimbo, minus the good looks and rich husband. However, I also reminded her that we shouldn’t berate ourselves because this sudden onset of chronic silliness is more symptomatic of how much information our brains are having to retain, rather than the opposite.

Is it any wonder that so many women misplace things like their phone, wallet, or keys when, for the majority of mothers, their brains are fit to burst with the amount of minutiae they must stay abreast of?

Sorting lunches, getting forms in for vaccinations, booking dental appointments and ferrying kids to and from extra-curricular activities have all contributed to what is now my perpetually furrowed brow.

As I do the constant mental gymnastics of being a parent, it is unsurprising that I find it increasingly difficult to follow a simple conversation with colleagues or keep track of a script during a Zoom meeting with comedy clients. Within 30 seconds of reading through a paragraph on any subject, my mind starts to wander, thinking whether or not I turned the dryer on before leaving the house.

Nowadays, on the rare occasion I do get out to do a comedy gig, I no longer have the capacity (either intellectually or emotionally) to engage in small talk in green rooms, because I have spent the entire day driving conversations with a two-year-old, which thus far is more of a one-way street.

I’m not saying my toddler doesn’t have the makings of a social butterfly, but I think asking the other person more questions wouldn’t hurt.

So far, though he answers all my enquiries happily, the curiosity is pretty one-sided. He has yet to ask how work is treating me, and almost never checks in with how the mortgage application is going. When it comes to the art of conversation, there’s certainly room for improvement.

My latest evening hobby is watching old episodes of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire while matching socks, and I have been a little horrified at more than once requiring a lifeline for the £100 question. Most recently, I got stumped on the name of a biscuit, which also doubles as a term for friendly chat. Thankfully, the contestant faced with this one also had to use a lifeline, which made me feel mildly better. That was until 98% of the audience came back with Hobnob, and I realised my own guess of digestive was off the mark.

Whether it is perimenopause or having children, my IQ is plummeting faster than a contestant’s bank balance having just missed the £16,000 question, or in Jeremy Clarkson speak, the price of a coffee and a sweet treat.

Will my capacity for general knowledge ever return? Let’s just say, if one of my nearest and dearest does end up sitting across from Jeremy Clarkson, I wouldn’t put my name down as a phone-a-friend anytime soon.

Unless, of course, the question relates to whether or not a hot towel conducts heat faster than a dry towel, because, thanks to my five-year-old, I definitely know the answer to that one — I have the second-degree burn to prove it.

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