Читать книгу Confessions Of A Domestic Failure - Bunmi Laditan - Страница 12
ОглавлениеI spend every Sunday morning doing a deep clean of my home. My littles love to help with age-appropriate jobs like wiping down silk flowers, stirring the compost and watering our bonsai trees.
—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better
Impossible Goal of the Day: Declutter everything.
My closet is no longer a closet. It is a mini-secondhand store/storage space for all of Aubrey’s things. How can a baby so small have so much stuff? I know it’s my fault, but girl clothes are so cute. How am I supposed to not spend every last dime buying clothes I never put her in? I know for a fact that her wardrobe is worth more than mine. All of the money I used to spend on myself, I now spend on her.
My postpartum body doesn’t exactly say DRESS ME UP! If it could talk, it’d probably say something like, STOP WITH ALL THE CHOCOLATE, or COVER ME WITH A BURLAP SACK.
In my closet are no less than four sizes of clothing that serve as a living monument to the old me, the pregnant me, the postpartum me and the postpartum-PMS-bloated me. I read in AllWomen magazine that your closet is a metaphor for your subconscious. If that’s true, then my subconscious is a mess and needs to be taken out back and put out of its misery.
Confession: I hate cleaning.
Does anyone else find it entirely unreasonable that a human being should be required to cook AND clean on the same day? I woke up determined to get my kitchen in a state that doesn’t make me shrink with shame. David ended up having to go into the office so I spent Aubrey’s afternoon nap wearing ill-fitting rubber gloves scouring the stove top, washing dishes, organizing cabinets, sweeping, mopping, etc.
Ridiculous Things I Found In Our Pantry:
5 partially consumed boxes of cereal
3 cans of fortified shakes for pregnant women (I drank one. Don’t judge me; it was chocolate.)
7 boxes of cake mix (I made a cake.)
3 tubs of frosting (I frosted the cake. See? I’m baking.)
3 one-pound bags of cashews from when I wanted to make my own cashew butter (Homesteaders. Don’t ask.)
When I was done my kitchen sparkled like it never had before. Aubrey woke up and I honestly felt like an amazing woman and mom until I realized something. I had to start dinner. In an hour, the kitchen would be destroyed. It seemed like a waste of my hard work so I ordered Chinese food, instead.
As I bounced a cranky post-nap Aubrey on my hip while watching television in the living room, I couldn’t help but wish David were home. It was Sunday, after all. I glanced around the room trying to think of something to do while waiting for the food to be delivered.
I wished parenting books talked about how utterly boring motherhood could be. I felt guilty for feeling it, but...I was bored. I tried to set Aubrey down on her foam mat, but as soon as her tiny feet grazed the floor, she let out a banshee scream. Like a good servant, I picked her right back up and headed into the kitchen to eat my feelings. Yes, food was coming any minute, but I needed calories to deal with my emotions.
I grabbed a clean spoon out of the dishwasher and made my way toward the pantry. It only took a few seconds to pop the top off of the industrial-sized tub of peanut butter and dip my spoon into its creamy goodness. It was like therapy for my mouth.
“Ah! Ah!” Aubrey begged for a taste. If she hadn’t already had peanut butter at Gloria’s house (even though I’d asked her not to give her any high-allergy foods—apparently peanut butter cookies don’t count), I would have hesitated. I watched, amused, as Aubrey worked the Tic Tac-sized piece of peanut butter around her mouth.
“Pretty good, isn’t it? One day you’ll eat your feelings, too, honey,” I said, closing the pantry and sitting with Aubrey on my lap at the kitchen table. I sighed. I pulled out my cell phone and considered texting David just for a little conversation. No, he was probably busy. I put the phone back into my pocket.
I don’t think he will ever fully understand what my life is like. I’m with Aubrey pretty much every waking minute. Yes, he and I are equal parents in the sense that we share equal DNA with the kid, but I’m with her all the time. I just want to talk to someone who doesn’t crap her pants every three hours.
I’d kill for some adult conversation. Last Wednesday I tried to spark up a convo with a barista at the café. I think she could sense my desperation because she nodded and smiled as if speaking to a child bragging about how old they were.
The other day the FedEx guy said, “How is everything?” and I went into a three-minute monologue about Aubrey’s sleep situation before the weird look on his face told me he was just being polite and not applying to be my therapist.
I get the feeling that sometimes David thinks I’m being dramatic about how exhausting this all is. “Just get more organized.” That’s like telling someone who’s drowning to simply learn the backstroke.
No, I’m not digging trenches all day, but motherhood is draining. I can’t nail down exactly why it’s so hard. Changing a diaper in itself isn’t difficult. Neither is feeding Aubrey or taking her on a walk.
I think what makes being a mom so hard is that it never stops. It just keeps going in perpetual motion. It’s a cycle with no end. The days of the week don’t mean anything to me. I don’t punch out. I’m never “off.” David comes home at the end of a hard day and has a sense of completion. He kicks off his shoes, throws his socks anywhere but the laundry basket, opens a beer, and sits on his recliner and plays with Aubrey. I never have that moment because I’m never done. Even when Aubrey goes down for the night, I stay on alert. She could wake up at any time for any reason. Teething. A cold. A wet diaper. I’m always in a heightened state of awareness.
There’s no paycheck as a sign of a job well done. No pats on the back from a manager. It just keeps going on and on, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
I pulled out my phone again and couldn’t resist sending a quick text to David. Almost done?
A few seconds later my phone beeped with a new message. PR crisis with the Loeman account. Don’t wait up. Love u.
No problem. Love u too, I texted back, before returning my phone to my pocket.
I felt my eyes start to well up with unexpected tears. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked, brushing them away.
I thought about calling Joy, but remembered that Sunday night is her book—i.e., wine and chatting—club. Even if I had a babysitter, her friends are the organized, always dressed perfectly, “Oh, look, I made organic blueberry muffins” type, and I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
I’d call Mom but she’s an hour and a half away, and hearing my tone would just worry her.
The idea popped into my head before I had a chance to stop it.
Gloria?
Was I desperate enough for company that I’d call the mother-in-law who once referred to my three-bean casserole as a “cute experiment”?
Yes. Yes, I was.
I stood up and switched Aubrey to the other hip. She squawked in protest.
Dialing the number, I tried not to notice that my fingers were shaking. I held the phone to my ear.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Okay, she’s not there, I should just hang—
“Hello?” Gloria’s voice caught me off guard.
“Gloria. Hi. Hi. Um. It’s me, Ashley. Hi. Um...”
“Ashley? Is that you?”
I tried to remember why I was calling.
“Hi, Gloria. Yes, it’s me. I’m just calling because... I just wanted... I wanted to see if you were free to pop by for dinner?” I bit my lip.
The line was silent.
“Tonight? Ashley, I...”
“If you’re busy, I totally understand. I just ordered Chinese food, David’s working, Aubrey won’t let me put her down and...”
To my horror a lump started to rise in my throat blocking my words. New tears flooded down my cheeks without warning. I let out a heaving sob.
“Ashley? Dear, are you crying? What’s wrong?” Gloria sounded more alarmed than I’d ever heard her.
“I’m just tired. And a little lonely. I’m so sorry...”
Gloria’s voice was steady. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She must have flown down the highway because eight minutes later there was a knock at the door. I’d had just enough time to splash some water on my face and pull my hair into a ponytail.
I opened it, and to my absolute surprise there was Gloria, in full makeup and hair with a black evening gown under an unbuttoned black faux-fur coat.
I gasped. She looked amazing. “Gloria! I...”
Gloria walked into the house and closed the door behind her. “I was getting ready to go to the theater with some friends from the community center but clearly you need me here.”
“I had no idea! I wish you hadn’t...”
Gloria waved in front of her face.
“Nonsense. I know a breakdown when I hear one. Tell me what’s going on, at once.”
In one sweeping motion, Gloria draped her coat over a dining room chair and took Aubrey from me. It was such a glorious relief to have my arms free. It was then I noticed that she was holding a bottle of red wine. My heart soared.
Gloria stared at me. “Well? Are you going to get us a couple of glasses?”
Ten minutes later we were sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by takeout boxes. Gloria placed a chunk of white rice in Aubrey’s waiting mouth. I took a sip of my wine.
She cleared her throat. “So, if I understand correctly, you’re exhausted, tired of being alone with Aubrey all of the time, you miss David, wish he’d help you more and want to lose twenty pounds but are unwilling to exercise.”
I stared at the ceiling trying to remember if I’d missed anything.
“That’s about it, yes.” I nodded furiously, taking another long sip. “It’s just that, I thought motherhood would be more fulfilling. I’m here with Aubrey every day, watching her scoot around on the floor or holding her all over the house—and there’s nowhere I’d rather be—but I’m bored. I have no one to talk to. David is busy with work. I’m just...”
“You’re just a mom,” cut in Gloria. “You feel useless and essential at the same time. You feel like everyone is doing a better job than you and that nobody understands what you’re going through.”
I stared at Gloria with my mouth agape.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
Gloria reached her chopsticks into the Kung Pao chicken and popped a bite into her mouth.
“Dear. We all felt like that.” She sipped her wine. “David was the first baby I’d ever held. I remember being so surprised when the nurse let us take him home after I had him. I was terrified. Back then, dads made the money and moms did all of the child raising, so I was completely on my own. Then, when David Senior passed away when the kids were just ten and eight...well...I was really on my own.”
I looked into my wine. I tried to imagine what that must have been like, raising two children on your own while navigating your own personal tragedy and theirs.
Gloria coughed. “But do you know how I got through it?”
I took a sip of wine. “You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps?”
Gloria scoffed. “No. Vodka. One shot every day at 5 p.m. on the dot.”
We dissolved into laughter. I couldn’t believe I was actually bonding with my mother-in-law, who only an hour earlier I thought didn’t much care for me.
Gloria picked up a stringy piece of chicken with her fingers and placed it in Aubrey’s waiting mouth. “Ashley, there’s no way around it. Motherhood is hard. And you young moms put more pressure on yourselves than we ever did, with your crafts and your activities. Do you know what we called crafts when David was young? Chores. We didn’t play with our kids, we sent them outside. All day. They’d only come back in when the streetlights came on. You moms have it different. You’re expected to be on 24/7 and look good doing it. My advice is this. Stop being so hard on yourself. And drink more vodka.”
I giggled again, this time with a mouthful of noodles.
Gloria and I watched as Aubrey gummed the chicken.
“When are you going to get some teeth, baby girl?” Gloria teased.
I shrugged.
Aubrey began to fuss and I realized it was almost her bath time.
I stood up. “I should get her ready for bed. Feel free to keep eating. I’ll bring her out after her bath.”
Gloria stood and held Aubrey close. “Absolutely not. This is your time. Put your feet up and eat your dinner. I’ll put her down to bed tonight.”
I was speechless. I blinked back the wetness that was rapidly rising behind my eyes.
“Thank you, Gloria. For everything. Thank you for coming tonight.”
Gloria smiled and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re welcome. I know I’m not your mom, and I know you wish she lived closer, but I’m here for you. Remember what I said. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself, and don’t forget...”
“The vodka,” we said together.
Gloria kept her word and didn’t leave until Aubrey was breathing heavily, her chest rising steadily. We stood together, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law in the darkened doorway, and just watched her, splayed out in her pink bunny sleeper.
I peeked over at Gloria, and for the first time wondered if I’d gotten her all wrong. She had come through for me.
As we walked down the stairs I felt the need to say something. I needed to cement this moment in history as the turning point in our relationship.
She was putting on her coat when I cleared my throat.
“Gloria, I just wanted to say thank you...thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said, slipping her arm into her enormous fur coat. “I’m actually glad you called. From now on, whenever David is working late, I’ll be right here with you.”
What?
She continued. “Don’t worry, I’ll get David’s schedule directly from him so you don’t even need to call next time. I’ll pop right over.”
I tried to keep my mouth affixed in smile formation. “That’s...great, Gloria. Okay. Thank you.”
What had I gotten myself into?
When Gloria left, I sank onto the couch and opened up my phone, hoping to see a text from David. It was already 8 p.m.
Nothing. I clicked through to Instagram and pulled up Emily Walker’s page.
She’d just posted a photo of herself with the twelve moms in Motherhood Better Bootcamp and their kids. They were standing in the lobby of her New York office, a gaggle of excited mothers, babies in strollers and a few older children. I’ve seen her office plenty of times on her Instagram; it’s baby pink and white, and has silver accents. She calls the lobby “the Pavilion” and has posted loads of photos of her two youngest children, Sage and Willow, eighteen months and three years, crawling around on the Shibori Jasmine wood floors next to celebrities, chefs and athletes. The moms all looked so happy in their pink shirts monogramed with Emily’s EW logo in white calligraphy.
I wasn’t jealous at all. No really, good for them.
Maybe I should make myself a T-shirt for Operation Perfect-ish Mom. No, that’s just pathetic. And it means more laundry.
I sat on the couch and pulled out Motherhood Better.
Too many moms depend on alcohol to relax and let off steam. I prefer yoga and sunbathing.
I took a long sip of wine. I was about to turn the page when the home phone rang.
“Dang!” I hissed, running toward the kitchen receiver. I’d forgotten to put it on silent for the night. What if it woke up Aubrey?
I skidded into the kitchen and breathlessly picked up the phone.
“Hello?” I said, annoyed.
“Is this Ashley Keller?” a woman’s voice asked.
Oh, no, was this about my credit card?
“Um, no... I’m...her nanny...may I take a message?”
“Yes, this is Rebecca Anderson, assistant to Emily Walker.”
I dropped the phone. Or threw it, rather. Rebecca Anderson? Emily Walker? I had to be dreaming. This was a dream.
I ran over to the sink where I’d thrown the phone and picked it up.
“I’m so sorry. Um, Ashley actually just walked through the door. Let me get her. One moment, please.” I put the phone down on the counter, and with my heart beating out of my chest, tiptoed over to the kitchen table. I then stomped over to the counter, pretending I was just entering the room.
“Hello? Ashley Keller speaking,” I said, trying to sound casual even though my voice cracked.
At this point, my heart was pounding so loudly I was afraid she could hear it.
“Hello, Ashley. This is Rebecca Anderson, assistant to Emily Walker of The Emily Walker Show. I’ll get right to the point. I’m calling you today because a spot in the Motherhood Better Bootcamp just opened up and you are next on the list.”
I think I passed out. She kept talking but I didn’t hear anything she said. At one point the line went quiet.
“Hello? Are you there? Can you do it?”
“YES, YES, I CAN DO IT. YES, PLEASE!” I scream-whispered into the receiver.
I still can’t believe any of this happened. Turns out, one of the moms was a “dog mommy” and didn’t have a human child, which got her disqualified.
I’m in. I’m actually in. I missed the kick-off party at Emily Walker’s studios, but the program officially starts tomorrow so I didn’t miss anything!
I slid down to the kitchen floor. It was happening. I was in.
“Hello? Are you there?” Rebecca’s voice spoke through the receiver.
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” I said, struggling to compose myself.
“As a member of the Motherhood Better Bootcamp, you’re required to attend weekly video chats with Emily Walker and the rest of the team. You missed the introductory one, but the first real chat is tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.”
“Uh-huh,” I responded, brilliantly. I felt like I was in a dream. Could I be dreaming? I looked around the kitchen at the empty takeout boxes. No, if I were dreaming my kitchen would be cleaner.
Rebecca kept talking. “In six weeks, you’ll be flown out to the gorgeous Napa Valley in northern California for the closing reception and a special taping of The Emily Walker Show. The $100,000 grand prize winner will be announced live. Is all of this something you can do?”
“Yes. I can do this,” I said, trying not to float away.
“Great. I’ll send the details to your email shortly.”
“Okay, thank you, Rebecca. Please hug Emily for me.” Did I just say that?
“I, um, okay. Goodbye.” The phone clicked off.
I sat there on the living room floor trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Tomorrow I would talk to Emily Walker face-to-face. Tomorrow was the first day of my new life.
Thank you, fairy godmother.
