Читать книгу Confessions Of A Domestic Failure - Bunmi Laditan - Страница 7
ОглавлениеAubrey woke up extra early this morning. #SoBlessed. I’d planned on doing a few leg lifts but of course I had to check Facebook and fell right down the rabbit hole.
What’s Facebook? It’s where moms like me post about how much we love the husbands who annoy the living bejesus out of us, and share expertly edited photos of our kids* and generally talk about our lives like we’re living in an enchanted fairy tale blessed by rainbow angel unicorns. In short, it’s for lying. But I’m addicted.
* Joy will never admit to this, but I know for a fact that she thickens her kids’ eyelashes in Photoshop—I caught her in the act once.
Joy (Easton) Thompson
Status: Ella is LOVING her new BabyBGo Stroller!
Below the status update was a photo of my dear sister in fitted black yoga gear—the expensive kind, not the cheapies I wear—pushing my adorable niece in a brand-new stroller that cost as much as my laptop. Her cleavage was perfect (nursing). “How is she so tiny?” I wondered, trying to blow up the photo. Maybe I should have tried those post-baby waist cincher things she swears by, but forcing myself into a corset while I was still bleeding post birth felt like a little much. Anyway, what is this, the Renaissance? She looked great, though. I hated her.
Uncle Grover (yes, her husband, my brother-in-law, was named after a Muppet) must be doing really well. He’s an actuary. I have no idea what that means, and when he talks about his work during family functions I usually picture him dancing on Sesame Street hand in hand with Elmo.
Note to self: Look up how much actuaries make. I’m super proud that my David is finally pursuing his dream and starting his own advertising agency and all, but it’d be nice to have some extra money for sexy yoga clothes and fancy strollers.
But my sweet niece, Ella, really is beautiful. She looks just like her mom: dimpled cheeks, almond eyes, jet-black hair and a toothy smile. (Aubrey has yet to pop even one tooth.) Aubrey looks so much like David that I get asked constantly if I’m the babysitter. If I were the babysitter, wouldn’t I be better dressed and have time to put on some makeup?
This is exactly why I hate Facebook. I know it’s just a website, but I truly believe from the bottom of my sleep-deprived heart that it has created absolute monsters out of the lot of us. If we’re not bragging and showing people (people we barely care about) our Pinterest projects (I’ll tackle this cold sore of a website later), we’re comparing our lives with everyone else’s. I hate it. I hate it for making me jealous of Suzy Wexler, someone I haven’t seen since high school graduation sixteen years ago, but somehow know way too much about—including, but not limited to, the fact that her husband buys her flowers every single Friday.
Every Friday.
Did I mention that she lives in a gorgeous waterfront home in Malibu and is now a television executive? She and her husband, who looks like a silver-haired former Abercrombie model, have three kids plus two dogs that resemble tampons on legs. Somehow Suzy still looks like she could grace the cover of Self. As if I needed another reason to think I suck at life, Suzy’s three-kid body looks about five hundred times better than my slashed-with-stretch-marks-like-I’ve-been-in-a-naked-knife-fight, pizza-dough-belly, one-kid body. David tells me I’m beautiful, but it’s while he’s pawing me in the dark, obviously trying to butter me up for some action.
In short, I did NOT need to wake up to a photo of Suzy Wexler’s thin, beautiful form lying on a beach chair in front of her backyard pool. Not when I’m still wearing maternity tops.
Of course, I accidentally clicked Like on said photo, which prompted an almost immediate, Thanks Ashley! How are you? from my ever-polite old high school friend.
It should be illegal to be gorgeous and sweet. It’s not fair. Just pick one. You cannot be a good person and hot. Hot and evil, yes. Homely and sweet, that’s okay, too. Pick a lane.
I told her how much I’m loving motherhood, not being able to lose my baby weight and feeling like I’m losing my mind. Okay, maybe I left out the last couple of things.
It ended with Suzy saying, We have to catch up sometime!
Of course, Suzy. I’ll just jump on a plane to Malibu with Aubrey and put on my ratty pregnancy swimsuit with the full skirt to hide my grizzly-bear bikini line while we chat and drink mimosas. You can tell me what it’s like to be successful and meet celebrities every day, and I can tell you about the Target bill that I’m currently hiding on top of the microwave until I can explain to my better half how I spent $2,000 on miscellaneous goods.
I hate having to explain my purchases to him, like I’m a child, just because he’s the breadwinner.
Note: I’m doing my best to get my spending under control but it’s hard when (1) Target is life and (2) spending money is my love language.
I’m planning on deactivating my Facebook account just as soon as I upload some photos of Aubrey in a dandelion field from last weekend.
11 P.M.
Motherhood is a gift that keeps on giving. When your child whines, they’re telling you they love you. Learn to hear their nighttime cries as a heavenly song composed by your little angel.
—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better
Aubrey just woke up. Her new thing is to go directly from REM to a level-ten scream. It’s awful, and I’m considering calling for an old priest and a young priest. I settled her down, but now I’m wide awake and exhausted at the same time.
David always says, “Just lie down, you’ll fall asleep eventually.” Yeah, after my mind picks apart every mistake I’ve ever made since I was three, every possible bad thing that could ever happen to Aubrey in her entire life and then tosses around the “What am I going to make for dinner tomorrow?” query. It’s so easy for men to fall asleep. Scientists should study whatever enzyme it is that they produce that helps them turn off their brains at night and drift into that deep, annoying I-can’t-hear-the-baby-crying slumber. They could turn it into a sleeping pill that women can take.
But good for him for being able to snore it up while I can’t even remember what it feels like to sleep through an entire night. Great for him. I’m happy. He needs the sleep. He works outside of the home, right? He has to fight traffic. All I have to fight is the 1 p.m. urge to inhale my weight in cheesy puffs. But, I mean, isn’t raising a child a job, too? Yeah, I do it at home, but it isn’t exactly a cakewalk. It’s not like I lounge on the couch painting my nails, eating bonbons all day.
I’d give blood plasma for a night nanny. It’s not fair that only celebrities who are already rich, famous and beautiful also get to be rested while I’m lying here in stretch pants covered in mysterious stains trying to remember the last time I took a shower. The other day I thought I smelled curdled milk. It was me. I smell like a yogurt factory.
I guessed I should try to sleep again, even though I knew the moment I lay down she’d start crying.
Help.
