Читать книгу Confessions Of A Domestic Failure - Bunmi Laditan - Страница 6
ОглавлениеAubrey’s ear-piercing cry rattled over the baby monitor, yanking me out of a deep sleep.
My eyes fluttered open. I looked at my phone’s clock. No, no, no, no, no.
I’d dreamt I had a full staff: a nanny, butler, housekeeper and full-time masseuse. The laundry mountain of shame that lives permanently on my living room couch had vanished, and in its place, eighty-one bottles of delicious exercise wine. What’s exercise wine? It’s a wine that, when consumed, stimulates your muscles, resulting in rock-hard abs. While my nanny, who wasn’t hot enough to be a threat, played with Aubrey on the floor, I enjoyed sip after mouthwatering sip and watched my kangaroo-pouch stomach tighten into a washboard.
Another scream over the monitor.
I don’t know whose grandmother I dropkicked into a well in a previous life to have an eight-month-old who regularly wakes up before the sun, but I wanted to apologize. I glanced at my darling husband, David, who was sleeping soundly. I watched him breathe deeply and suppressed the urge to smother him with a pillow. How was it that he could hear me adjusting the thermostat from two rooms away but could sleep through the ear-stabbing howls of our eight-month-old every morning?
“I know you’re faking,” I whispered, trying to call his bluff. No movement.
I threw my legs over the side of the bed and bent down to find my trusty black stretch pants. They’re the same ones I’d been wearing for the past two, three, maybe six days. They didn’t smell bad, they smelled...rich with character.
After making my way to the bathroom, I splashed a bit of water on my face, hoping the H20 would magically fade the dark circles around my eyes. I glanced into the mirror and was surprised to see Medusa staring back at me, but instead of snakes coming out of my head, there was just a ratty ponytail. I ran my fingers through the mess and cringed. If my hair got any greasier, I’d be able to stand outside on a hot day and cook breakfast on it.
I was exhausted. My back hurt. My head hurt. My eyelashes hurt.
I tried to remember when my last good night’s sleep was. It had to be when I was six months pregnant. That’s when the heartburn kicked in. Did I say heartburn? I meant boiling hot lava. Flaming acid rain. Whatever it was, it meant I had to sleep sitting up in bed while Aubrey Riverdanced on my bladder. If there was any justice on Earth, women would take the first twenty-week shift of pregnancy and men would take over for the last four-and-a-half months. But based on how a common head cold transformed my husband from a thirty-five-year-old man to a ninety-six-year-old granny with malaria, I wasn’t sure he’d make it through one day with child.
Another angry scream shot through the baby monitor.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I whispered, dabbing at my face with a towel. I stared at my tired reflection in the mirror.
When Aubrey was finally born, every ounce of throat-searing bile was (mostly) forgotten as I looked into her adorable little face covered in that weird, white marsh scum* infants are born with. I wish someone had warned me about the vernix situation. Maybe then I wouldn’t have screamed, “IS SHE A LEPER?” in front of two nurses, the doctor and a team of horrified interns. David teased me for weeks. Every time I’d hand her to him, he’d make a cross with his fingers and yell, “Unclean!”
She really was a beautiful baby. Or I thought she was. Everyone thinks their newborn is a looker when the truth is, 99.99 percent of them look like Groucho Marx.
* When you think about it, my uterus was kind of like a marsh: it was wet, dark, warm. All that was missing were the alligators.
* * *
I looked down and noticed that the pants I had slipped on in the dark featured a large hole in the crotch. A custom air vent, I rationalized.
It was almost impossible to believe that two years ago my mornings started with a ridiculously long shower as I got ready for work at Weber & Associates. I was a rising superstar in the marketing world. Back then, my mornings revolved around my intricately detailed makeup routine, dressing in trendy but professional skirt suits, and the vanilla latte and egg, cheese and ham croissant that I’d devour on my commute. Now breakfast consisted of whatever finger-food scraps Aubrey doesn’t eat and peanut butter on a spoon while standing up with my face in the pantry. This wasn’t how I pictured motherhood at all.
In my motherhood fantasy, I’d wake up at 7 a.m. and float into my still-sleeping baby’s designer periwinkle-and-slate nursery (with a plum accent wall—like in Real Simple’s Fall issue). Everything in the spotless, clutter-free baby sanctuary would be made by obscure Etsy artists living in the woods in Oregon, Italian designers or handmade by yours truly. You’d be able to feel the oak knots in the crib. They’d tell a story.
While my baby slept, I’d sit in her custom-made organic bamboo-and-pine rocking chair and write her a poem every day. She’d treasure these poems for her entire life and eventually turn them into songs. She’d win armfuls of Grammy Awards while I, an old but hot grandma, cheered her on from the star-studded audience. I can already see the award show camera go from her, in a beautiful gown on stage giving her acceptance speech, to me, tearfully clapping for my baby girl. She’d blow me a kiss, I’d catch it, and people around the world would be inspired by our mother-daughter connection. “How did she raise such an amazing young woman?” they’d ask themselves.
I’d wear stylish but casual clothing: white sundresses and practical but fabulous strappy Bohemian wedges. I’d save the skinny jeans for playdates.
Speaking of playdates, I’d be invited to so many of them that I’d be turning them down. “Sarah, I’d love to pop by, but I’m making organic applesauce and canning tomatoes from my garden today, sorry!”
I’d have one of those cute planners to keep all of my events straight—a pink leather-bound agenda with a matching pen that I’d keep in my fantastic diaper bag. The fantastic diaper bag that I’d never forget at home.
Aubrey would wear nothing but 100 percent organic cotton matching separates, lots of delicate vintage lace and those $60-a-pop suede booties in every color. I’d visit the farmers’ market daily and sniff loads of fresh fruit, vegetables and local honey before selecting the items that would become the rustic, delicious dinners that I would Instagram to the delight of my hundreds of thousands of followers.
My meals would be beautiful and epic. People on Facebook would stare in admiration at the photos of my homemade Bolognese with handmade pasta. I’d definitely have one of those countertop pasta-drying things that look like they’re for hanging miniature laundry.
Obviously, I’d cook while wearing seasonally themed aprons with Aubrey warm and cozy in the baby wrap I got at my shower a year ago and that I have yet to learn how to put on. David would brag to all his friends about how naturally I took to motherhood and how he always knew I’d be a great mom.
My reality? Aubrey screams me awake at 5 a.m. every morning and I’m about six months behind on the laundry that’s taking over my living room like some kind of poisonous mold.
Forget about all of the cute outfits I thought I’d be putting my firstborn in. Every day my daughter wears one of four pairs of footie pajamas. She can’t even walk and the feet are getting worn out from use. Two of them are stained: one from a diaper blowout (since when does infant poop stain?) and another from red wine (don’t judge me). I wear the same three pairs of black yoga pants and a rotating army of stretched-out tank tops that can barely contain my jiggly muffin top.
Two weeks ago in the grocery store, an elderly woman looked us up and down, shook her head and handed me $20. I wanted to yell, “We’re not homeless. I’m just too tired to care!” but she’d already turned down the baked goods aisle.
My thoughts were interrupted by another howl over the baby monitor as I hurried to pee. I finished up and washed my hands more slowly than I should have, savoring the last few moments of my day alone.
Before having Aubrey, I thought I’d be an amazing mom. I thought I’d be Emily Walker. Yes, THAT Emily Walker, the mom everyone wants to be; the famous mom blogger turned media darling who went from sharing her perfect family (including five children) and their perfect life with an audience of millions of mediocre moms to getting her own morning television show where she tells moms everywhere how to knit, craft and bake their way to a better life, all while getting to yoga class on time.
Not that I go to a yoga class. And let’s not even talk about my body. I refuse to let David see me naked. The few—and I mean few—times we’ve found ourselves in a compromising position since Aubrey was born, I insisted that the lights remained off and as much of me stayed under the covers as possible. Yeah, I’m a regular vixen.
But Emily Walker has five kids and looks incredible naked. I know because on her blog are gorgeous photos from her vacation in the Bahamas (sponsored by a sunscreen company, of course). In one of them, she’s lying on a huge yacht in a bikini that looks like a piece of dental floss. She doesn’t have a single stretchmark on her toned, tight abdomen. Not one. I only have one kid and not only can I tuck my stomach into my pants, but it also looks like a bear clawed its way down my doughy center. But who’s keeping score? Okay, I am.
Motherhood has done a number on my body. My hair has somehow become an oil slick and bone-dry at the same time. My skin is always broken out from the hormonal roller coaster I can’t seem to get off of. Last week I cried during a commercial for yeast infection cream. David looked at me like I was insane. In my defense, the mother and daughter bonding over their shared vaginal fungus really touched me.
I thought being a stay-at-home mom would be easier. But the house is a disaster. David doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the judge-y way he looks around when he gets home that he’s noticed we currently live in an upscale rattlesnake’s nest.
I’m not exactly the best home chef, either. My idea of cooking is flipping through takeout menus with a spoonful of Nutella in my mouth or throwing something together at the last minute as if I’m on one of those “race against time” cooking shows. The result is usually spaghetti or quesadillas—you know, the kind of food fourth graders eat for lunch. Basically, I’m failing.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets. I love Aubrey. I just didn’t think I’d get pregnant so fast after David and I got married. I know how babies are made, but getting knocked up on the first try was a surprise. I was equally surprised to get laid off while on maternity leave. I guess that’s what happens when a company has to tighten its belt after the CEO is caught embezzling money. I never even got to ride on his yacht. Pity. So, here I am, an accidental stay-at-home mom.
In two short years I went from being a professional thirty-two-year-old semifashionable woman who ordered cranberry martinis during happy hour and spent Friday nights hopping from fusion restaurants to invite-only “what’s the password” bars, to a thirty-four-year-old lumpy, bone-tired, hormonal mom who lives in semiclean activewear and spends Friday nights passing out at 7:48 p.m.—three minutes after I get Aubrey to sleep.
Just when I was really starting to feel sorry for myself, another impatient yelp boomed through the baby monitor. I peeked out of the bathroom into the bedroom where David had turned onto his side.
“Still pretending to be asleep, huh?” I spoke directly at him. Still nothing.
I shook my head but let him off the hook. In an hour he’d be off to work, fighting to make a name for the advertising agency he’d left his job to start four months before I decided not to find another job. I knew he was under a lot of pressure to make his company successful. If his sales skills were half as good as his early-morning acting skills, he’d have no problem at all. But in all seriousness, I was proud of him for fighting for his dream. I just wished he’d get up with the baby once in a while.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I said, as I walked toward my daughter’s bedroom. She was standing up, full of more energy than anyone should have before dawn. Her smile was contagious and I found myself cracking a slight one as I scooped her into my arms. If there was anything more delicious than a baby in footed pajamas I didn’t know what it was. I mean, ham and cheese croissants came close, but she was still cuter. Before having Aubrey I thought it was horrifying when people talked about wanting to eat up their babies, but now I totally got it.
She babbled enthusiastically as I nuzzled her cheek. My heart dissolved into warm fuzzies as she pawed at my shirt. I looked down at her sweet face and tried to memorize every curve and dimple. I may not be the world’s best mom, but gosh, how I love this little girl.
“Just so you know, when you’re ready to talk, it’s perfectly fine to call for Daddy in the morning,” I said, as we made our way downstairs and into the kitchen. I flipped the switch and blinked as the light burned my eyes. It was too early.
Coffee. Must ingest caffeine. Before becoming a mom, I loved coffee, but now I needed it to function. My body went on autopilot as I fumbled with the coffeemaker with one hand. Aubrey cooed to herself on my hip. I pressed the Start button and the machine began to gurgle.
In a few hours, my ex-coworkers would be in the main conference room brainstorming PR campaigns for a new sugar-free energy drink or sparkly nail polish over a catered breakfast, while I was still sitting in my living room trying to stay awake.
I grabbed my coffee and walked with Aubrey, still happily on my hip, into the living room. I plopped her down on the enormous play mat that dominated the room and she quickly got to work finding her favorite toys. I flipped on the television and found a comfortable spot on the couch, cradling my coffee mug in my hands. Sensing my comfort, Aubrey began to squawk angrily. I picked her up and sat her on my lap for snuggles. She immediately dove for the hot coffee in my hand. I managed to take a few urgent sips before placing it on the end table and out of her sight. I looked longingly at my warm cup of daily motivation. I’d finish it when Aubrey napped. Of course, it’d be stone-cold by then, but that’s what microwaves are for.
I heard a familiar voice on the television.
It was Emily Walker, mom blogger turned media superstar, on her highly acclaimed morning show, aptly titled The Emily Walker Show, doing a cooking segment with her latest celebrity guest.
Emily, impeccably dressed in a canary yellow ensemble, stood next to the redheaded bombshell and looked into the camera.
“Your kids are absolutely going to LOVE these butternut squash date scones!” Emily said, waving her hands enthusiastically.
“Which kids would love those? Human ones?” I said to Aubrey, as if she could understand anything I said. She blinked.
Emily held up a book. “Don’t forget to pick up Alicia Winter’s new wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, fat-free dessert cookbook! It’s in stores now!”
“I’ll get right on that,” I said sarcastically to Aubrey, who was now happily chewing on a runaway strand of my hair. I really needed to get some friends. Surely they’d appreciate my witty commentary more than an eight-month-old could.
Truth be told, I’d love to be the kind of mom who showed up to playdates with a tray of delicious, homemade treats: baby carrots cut up to look like snakes, baskets of muffins made with beet puree, and hand-churned yogurt in mini glass mason jars topped with fruit I preserved myself. The other moms would watch in astonishment as their children devoured my domestic creations. But so far I’ve been invited to exactly zero playdates. Even if I were asked, I’d probably bring a few bags of drive-through fries. Fries are a vegetable, right? They’re also vegan.
I stole another sip of my coffee and turned up the volume.
Emily was now sitting on her trademark pink EW-logoed interviewer couch, having what she called a Mama Heart to Mama Heart. It’s how she ended every episode of her show—with a few words of her own brand of wisdom.
“My mission for The Emily Walker Show has always been to inspire mothers.” The camera zoomed in tight. “I see you there, mama. You’re tired, frumpy, exhausted...”
I looked down at my stained purple sweatshirt and holey pants and glanced around the room. Were there cameras in here?
Emily narrowed her eyes dramatically. “Every day I get hundreds of emails and letters asking me how I raise my five beautiful children while running my empire, and I’m thrilled to announce that my book, Motherhood Better, comes out today. In it you will find the keys to my success and your own. Are you ready to be the mom you’ve always known you can be? Are you ready to truly enjoy motherhood?”
I found myself staring at the camera, hypnotized. She was saying all of the right things. It’s true. I had always wondered how Emily’s social media accounts were constantly full of gorgeous meals and perfectly groomed children, and boasted of her latest ventures, when the only thing I’d accomplished last week was moving my laundry pile from the bedroom floor to the recliner. I’d also figured out that a spoon half full of Nutella and half full of peanut butter dipped in powdered sugar tastes like a Reese’s cup.
“My new book, Motherhood Better, will take you from frumpy to fabulous, struggling to spectacular. It’s time to become the mother you’ve always known you could be.”
This was exactly what I needed. With that realization, I practically flew off the couch, startling Aubrey, and grabbed my computer from the dining room table. Within minutes I’d purchased the book from BookSpot, a local store downtown and opted for same day pickup. This was an emergency, after all.
I was almost shaking with excitement. This was my moment. This is exactly what I’d been waiting for. That, and I was running out of places to hide laundry.
I opened my email and was excited to see a confirmation message waiting for me.
You purchased Motherhood Better by Emily Walker.
I looked at my phone. Only four hours until the store opened. Today I will become a mother, better. A better mother? Anyway—I’ll get the book today is what I’m saying.
2 P.M.
I’d finally gotten Aubrey down for a nap and was lounging on my bed, trying not to let the two sinks full of dishes distract me from my well-deserved break. The day had been one for the record books. Everything that could have gone wrong had, and I learned some important lessons.
Lesson #1: If you forget the diaper bag at home and your baby needs changing at a bookstore, remember that you CANNOT, in fact, craft a diaper out of an old ziplock freezer bag that you found in the trunk of your car and a pair of emergency period panties from your glove compartment.
Lesson #2: When you arrive at home and see that your mother-in-law, Gloria, has popped in for a surprise visit with one of her classic six-cheese casseroles because she thinks (knows) you can’t cook and doesn’t want her David “starving to death,” don’t forget about your ziplock bag/period-panty diaper monstrosity and hand the baby to her.
Lesson #3: When your mother-in-law gasps and recoils in horror upon changing the baby and seeing your ziplock bag/period-panty diaper debacle (complete with a stained merlot mosaic of periods past), think of something clever and blasé to say rather than just standing there with your mouth open. Don’t manically yell “Yolo!” She’ll just ask what “yolo” means and you’ll sound like an idiot explaining it. Also, don’t try to cover your tracks and say that yolo is an ancient Tibetan prayer, because even though your mother-in-law doesn’t know how to call before she visits, she does know how to Google.
Lesson #4: Be more prepared. Keep the diaper bag by the door. You should be better at this by now.
What kind of people “just pop by” anyway? Perhaps my dear husband casually let his mom in on the not-so-secret secret that I’m not taking to motherhood as naturally as I thought I would. In my defense, Aubrey is only eight months old. Eight months into any job isn’t really enough time to become an expert.*
* Not that I’m calling motherhood a job. It’s a blessing. Really, it is. Such a blessing. I’m blessed. Truly. #soblessed
Despite my sweet mother-in-law going on and on about how motherhood is an instinct, I can’t be the only newish mom having a bit of a time finding her groove.
To be fair, I had very little preparation for this whole motherhood thing. Before Aubrey, the only newborns I’d ever held were my sister Joy’s kids, the last of whom, my niece, was born just a month before I joined #TeamMom. That’s a day I’ll never forget, and not just because my niece was so adorable. Joy had just dropped the enormous bomb that she was giving her baby girl the name we’d both loved, I mean LOVED, as in we’d named every doll and teddy bear Ella since we were four and seven. When we found out that we were both pregnant, we even met at a coffee shop and decided that neither of us would take the name. So when the nurse said, “Isn’t Ella darling?” I almost hit the ground.
“Don’t be childish, Ashley,” was Joy’s response as she lay looking like a freaking goddess in her hospital bed. She was probably the first woman there to give birth in a $200 custom nursing gown. It was gorgeous. Pink apple print with cute little yellow blossoms.
It wasn’t just the gown. Joy always looked fantastic. Her hair was even prettily tousled like she’d been boating all day rather than pushing six pounds and seven ounces of person out of her vagina.
When I told her I wasn’t being childish and brought up the conversation in the café, Mom chimed in to defend her like she always does.
“Stop it, Ashley. Your sister just had a baby, for goodness sake. And she really does look like an Ella.”
I had Aubrey one month later.
I love Ella and, of course, her brother, my three-year-old nephew, George, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little every time I hear her name.
“Aubrey is a gorgeous name,” Joy gushed when she came to visit me in the birthing center. Joy and Mom were dead against my giving birth to my first outside of a hospital. In our typical Easton style, they never actually told me this. They just sent me every birthing center/natural-birth-gone-wrong horror story ever published while I was pregnant.
So maybe I did feel a little smug when Aubrey was born all warm and perfect in my hippie den aka birthing center. That is, until Joy spoke.
“You really are brave, Ashley. I never could have rolled the dice with my baby.”
Once again, Mom backed her up. “Yes, Ashley, you’re very lucky.”
Lucky? They acted like I’d run blindfolded across six lanes of traffic while balancing my baby on my head rather than just given birth in the #1 birthing center in the nation, directly across the street from a top-rated, fully equipped hospital.
Before Aubrey was born I’d decided that I’d be one of those all-natural moms who made their own peanut butter, wore their baby 24/7 in one of those slings and breast-fed well into toddlerhood. Giving birth to Aubrey in a birthing center was just what I needed to catapult me into my new, organic lifestyle.
But my earth-mother adrenaline rush lasted until about four days after Aubrey was born, when my milk didn’t come in. After Aubrey lost two pounds, even my “fight the man” midwife had to admit that something was very wrong.
“You might just be one of those women,” she said to me in a hushed whisper, as if we were undercover spies trading government secrets. “One of those women who don’t make milk.”
“BUT YOU SAID THEY WERE ONE IN FIVE MILLION!” I cried, pushing my raw nipple into Aubrey’s screaming mouth. “I HAD A NATURAL BIRTH!”
Two lactation consultants, bloodwork, a dozen delicious but ineffective lactation cookies, two boxes of lactation tea and a rented breast pump later, I gave in and bought my first tin of failure powder. That’s what a mom from my online breastfeeding forum calls formula. Failure powder. For failures like me. Did I mention that Emily Walker made so much breast milk for her last baby, Sage, that she donated gallons to her local milk bank?
Joy was as helpful as she always is. “I’d totally pump for Aubrey, but I’m making just enough for Ella as it is. Sorry.” I could tell she really was sorry, but it didn’t help with the feeling of crushing disappointment. The studies that go around Facebook every fifteen minutes about how babies who aren’t breast-fed grow up with dragon scales covering their entire bodies didn’t help.
Eight months later I still hate myself just a little every time I scoop that white powder into the bottle. Formula. I’m a formula mom. This wasn’t how I saw it all happening. It’s not that I think formula is evil; I just always pictured myself breastfeeding under a willow at the park, its leaves gently swaying in the warm breeze, onlookers stealing admiring glances at me. Ask me how many admiring glances I get whipping out a nine-ounce bottle at Starbucks. ZERO. One mom even asked—with tears in her eyes, no less—if she could breastfeed my baby for me. As if Aubrey is some malnourished third-world baby on television with flies buzzing around her emaciated body. I may have lied and said that she’s allergic to human milk.
Oh, and we stopped using the million-dollar-a-can organic formula blend when Aubrey was three months old. Now she’s on the cheap brand stuff. She’s the only eight-month-old I know with zero teeth—probably from all of the trace minerals she’s missing from my malfunctioning mammary glands. Formula. When she drops out of community college, we’ll all know why.
Yesterday, Emily Walker posted a photo of herself breastfeeding her eighteen-month-old in front of the Eiffel Tower. She’s doing her show live from Paris for her Motherhood Better book tour, and I’m sitting in funky pajamas trying to remember the last time I shaved my armpits.
Back to the lessons I learned today. So in all of the “confusion” (shorthand for poopy-diaper-ziplock-bag-period-panty-replacement among us moms) I left my copy of Motherhood Better in the bookstore bathroom. I called and they said my copy had been thrown away (an employee complained that its proximity to the baby changing area was unhygienic) but they’re giving me another one free of charge. David is picking it up on his way home from work. I asked him to pick up dinner, too. I’m exhausted from a day thinking about all the ways I’m screwing up his child, and the fridge is practically empty other than chardonnay, string cheese and almost-rotten produce.
It’s not that I don’t want to run to the store for groceries when Aubrey wakes up, it’s just that leaving the house feels like more trouble than it’s worth.
If I could ask the entire world one question, it would be: Why does it seem like people hate moms so much? Before anyone could accuse me of overreacting, I’d point out my first piece of evidence: the size of parking spots. Last time I was at the grocery store, as I squeezed my eight-months-postpartum body between millimeters of steel like a human panini, I had to wonder whether whoever paints those lines either...
Has never seen a human family before.
—or—
Despises mothers with the heat of a thousand diaper rashes.
How hard would it be to paint the white lines two inches farther apart? Would these mom-hater paint despots rather we go around scraping their BMW two-seaters with our minivan doors?
Is it deliberate fat shaming? Yes, I’ve only lost seven pounds of baby weight (which is weird, because the baby weighed eight pounds, two ounces), but we can’t all be celebrity moms who go straight from hospital gowns to string bikinis.
And unlike those magical Hollywood moms, I didn’t have a personal chef on call to make me macrobiotic, paleo, organic, fat-free, sugar-free, carb-free (taste-free?) meals every day.
It probably doesn’t help that the closest thing I get to doing sit-ups is lying on the living room floor lifting my head for sips of Shiraz, but a girl’s gotta live a little. And there’s no way I could quit gluten. Do they know how many carbs it takes to stay awake when you have a baby who sleeps about fourteen minutes a night? A lot. Cutting carbs would make me a bad mother and I have to put my child first.
I got up and made my way into the kitchen, savoring the silence of nap time. I browsed the pantry for a few seconds before grabbing a jar of chunky peanut butter. After selecting a spoon from the dishwasher, I helped myself to a heaping mountain of peanut-buttery delight.
“I really should exercise,” I said to no one in particular, my mouth full of sticky goodness.
Last week Emily had a celebrity trainer on her show. She showed the audience how to lie on their backs and bench press their babies while wearing a hot pink sports bra and matching designer leggings. I was tempted to get on my living room carpet and give it a shot, but I had a premonition of Aubrey puking partially digested milk into my hair. I smelled bad enough without being doused in baby vinaigrette.
I took another spoonful of peanut butter. Peanuts have protein, right? Protein is important.
Back to the ridiculous parking spaces. Every time I parked and had to squeeze my jiggly post-baby stomach between vehicles it was just another reminder that I’m not where I should be, body-wise. It’s hard enough getting out of the house with an eight-month-old who only poops when we’re in stores.
Which led me to...
Piece of Evidence That The World Hates Moms #2: Public Changing Tables.
Nobody’s asking for a Four Seasons-inspired changing room with baby bidets and Egyptian cotton, rosewater-scented wipes individually handed to me by a gloved bathroom attendant, but three days ago I almost gagged changing Aubrey on a sticky, crusty monstrosity with broken straps, soiled with what I HOPED was dried prune baby food. I did my best to clean the biohazard with wipes and hand sanitizer, but really?
Sometimes it feels like moms are supposed to be invisible in society. Seen but not heard. We’re supposed to quietly and quickly go about our task of raising perfectly mannered, groomed Gap babies who speak four languages before they’re six without distracting the rest of the world from their important work.
I took one more heaping spoonful of peanut butter before replacing the lid and closing the pantry door. How nice would it be to live in a world that actually considers mothers? In Sweden, everyone takes care of everyone else’s babies. Seriously. I read somewhere that when parents go to cafés or restaurants, they just leave their strollers outside by the door on the sidewalk, knowing that if the baby cries or needs help, passersby will jump right in and breastfeed or whatever. That sure beats feeling like every peep your baby makes in public is a capital crime.
I’ve watched way too many episodes of Law & Justice to put my faith in a stranger on the street, but it kind of sounds like paradise. The last (and only) time we took Aubrey out to eat, I ended up standing outside the restaurant bouncing her around while she screamed and tried to buck out of my arms like a wild pony. I ended up eating my cold eggplant parm out of a Styrofoam box in the kitchen at midnight. Good times.
My train of thought was interrupted by a baby yell. Was that Aubrey? I listened again. Nothing. Lately, I’d been experiencing phantom cries—thinking I heard Aubrey make noise when she hadn’t. David thinks I’m losing it. He’s not wrong.
Oh, wait, there was that sound again. Definitely Aubrey. I guess the dishes will have to wait.
9:30 P.M.
I was lying in bed next to David, who was sleeping soundly. Instead of joining him in dreamland, I had Emily’s book propped open with one hand, and my phone’s flashlight in the other, illuminating the page.
So far, the book was everything I expected. It only took half a chapter to make me feel like crap. Inspired crap, but crap.
Motherhood can be a joyful experience if you allow it to be. Too many moms spend their days in tense anger or regret, which is then energetically transmitted to their children.
Good to know. I’ve been frying Aubrey’s heart via my toxic gamma rays.
As a mother, you are the gatekeeper of your child’s health. It’s up to you whether their bodies are filled with preservatives and chemicals, or nourished with homemade broths and fresh-from-the-oven grain-free breads.
I ran downstairs, flipped on the light and grabbed the Funny O’s that Aubrey gobbles up from her high chair every morning. I turned the box around to read the label.
Whole grain oats. That’s good. Oats grow in fields under sunlight and in the fresh air.
Modified corn starch. Okay, well corn is a vegetable. Modified. I tried not to picture Aubrey growing an extra hand out of her forehead.
Sugar. Salt.
Are babies supposed to eat this? I vowed to myself to spend the extra dollar on the organic ones next time. I guess the book was working. Sitting down on the couch I continued reading.
Motherhood and meal preparation go together like peanut butter and jelly.
Note to self, I thought. Learn to love cooking.
If June Cleaver were to enter my kitchen right now, she’d wonder two things...
How does someone with such poor culinary skills make such a terrible mess?
—and—
Where is that smell coming from?
To address the first query, people who have well-below-average cooking skills make bigger messes because, much like intoxicated folks, they are confused and disoriented. For example, last month I felt ambitious after watching a FoodTV episode about Eastern cooking and tried to make curry. I remember hearing that in India, they always stir-fry the spices to bring out the flavors. My interpretation of this step involved burning the spices in oil until they were a greasy, black, charred mess that not even cubed chicken, chickpeas and coconut basmati rice could save.
It was a very sad, very bitter stew.
David did his classic, head-cocked-to-one-side smile-frown before saying, “No, no, it’s good, just...strong.” He choked down another bite before gulping his entire glass of water in eight seconds. I think he was starting to sense how close to the edge I was, and was afraid to hurt my feelings lest I dissolve into a puddle of tears. Good. He’d always been good about picking up on my feelings. Needless to say, he didn’t pack the leftovers for lunch the next day.
* * *
Three hours after my disastrous curry dinner, the kitchen still looked like a culinary crime scene. Almost every pot, mixing bowl and wooden spoon was out, vegetable trimmings were still on the counters and the sink was overflowing with dishes.
It’s tragic that such chaos birthed such bland food, and it’s a downright crime and shame that cooking must always be followed by cleaning.
Now, to answer the second question. What’s that smell?
The odor June would have taken exception to is coming from under the counter. Six weeks ago, when I was feeling particularly roosty and productive, I joined a Facebook group of homesteaders. These are people who don’t believe in grocery stores and try to live off the land as much as possible, in case civilization collapses. I just wanted to learn how to make bread.
One of the members told me about how she grows potatoes in her crawlspace. Despite the fact that I am barely able to nurture a human child, I decided to try this form of indoor gardening in the darkness of a floor-level kitchen cabinet.
The result was a gallon of rotten potato goo. My “starter spuds” melted into slop and seeped into the wood. I’ve tried bleach and vinegar, and I aired out the cabinet for weeks but the putrid smell still lingers. Would it have killed the potatoes to at least turn into vodka?
Earlier this afternoon, I made the mistake of hopping onto Emily Walker’s Instagram to get a bit of dinner inspiration. Do you know what she made for her family tonight? Roasted rosemary organic chicken on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes with a side of sautéed baby spinach and crushed cashews. The photo looked like it was pulled right out of a gourmet cooking magazine. Even her tablecloth was fancy. My heart sank a little. There was no way I could do that with Aubrey crying on my hip, clawing at my neck like a gremlin. How did Emily do it? I consider grilled cheese with sliced red bell peppers a gourmet meal.
I let out a sigh and looked around the dark living room, as if help was in one of the corners cluttered with Aubrey’s toys. Sensing no woodland fairy was going to pop out of nowhere and fix my life, I sat down on the couch and my hand settled on something hard. My laptop. I went onto Emily Walker’s website, hoping to find an easier recipe for tomorrow, but instead saw a teaser link to a “special announcement” on the homepage.
Are you ready, mommies? the teaser read. I clicked the link.
To celebrate her book, she was launching a program called the Motherhood Better Bootcamp. Twelve moms would be chosen to be personally mentored by Emily herself, and—get this—at the end of the five-week transformation period the whole group would get flown out to Emily’s home in Napa Valley, California, for three days of wine, rest and relaxation.
I continued to read. There was more.
The mom who had the biggest transformation would win $100,000.
One hundred thousand dollars.
One thousand dollars, one hundred times.
I was totally doing it. Not just for me, but for Aubrey. She deserved a great mom. A happy mom. A capable mom. She was too young to care that I had no idea what I was doing now, but what about when she was six or seven? By then she’d be old enough to compare me to the squash-scone-making moms of all her friends. I needed to change before that happened.
Fingers and toes crossed.
I clicked through to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp application. I filled in the basic information and then began tackling the harder questions.
“Why do you want to be accepted?” I resisted the urge to write, “Because I suck at being a mom,” and wrote “To become the mom I know I can be in my heart.” That sounded like something Emily would say.
It was almost midnight when I finally finished. My hand trembled a little as I pressed the green Submit button.
A message screen opened.
Thank you for applying to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp. The chosen participants will be announced next week. Have a beautiful day and don’t forget to sparkle.
I looked at my phone. It was 12:14 a.m. Yeah, I’ll sparkle tomorrow. Like a zombie dipped in glitter.
