And then there’s the holy grail: the Widowed Dad. You get all the benefits of a divorced dad, but without a crazy ex-wife to deal with! We only have one at this school. So far, at least. I mean, anything can happen. Jesse would be the hottest dad at McKinley even if his wife were alive, but the fact that he’s grief-stricken and hot just makes his stock soar. I swear, when he walks into a room, you can hear the other moms wishing their husbands would die. Not painfully, just . . . in their sleep, maybe? And I don’t blame them. I’m not usually into extremely handsome men with flawless bodies—aside from Vin, of course—but Jesse releases a special pheromone that makes all the moms want to heal his broken heart with sex. Nobody, to my knowledge, has accomplished this yet.
Once, Jesse was wearing his daughter’s Frozen backpack at drop-off, and the moms lost their shit over her two perfect French braids. They were good braids, but these bitches acted like they’d never seen a braid before. They wanted to know everything: What hair products did he use, and did he watch a YouTube tutorial or was he just a natural? Even their compliments sounded like questions. And the giggling. It was nonstop. You’d think Jesse was doing a stand-up set and not just . . . standing up. Jesse makes all these women completely insane. I don’t see them tripping all over each other like “Jennifer, that braid! Amanda, you packed a lunch!” I’m not saying that Jesse isn’t a good dad. I’m just saying that Jesse is treated like a living saint for just doing shit a parent is supposed to do. The same women who look down on me and Jaxon, who I know whisper about how I dress and why I don’t have a ring on my finger, think that Jesse is some kind of hero for doing the same shit we all do every single day.
The mom groups are breaking up, and the traffic cop is showing new signs of life, attempting to guide the minivans into my personal fast lane. I rev the engine of my Trans Am and peel out, watching in the rearview mirror as each mom’s head snaps in my direction.
Show’s over, ladies.
4
Kiki
7:00: Wake up
7:05: Start coffee
7:10: Shower
7:20: Wake up Kent and kids
7:25: Feed kids
7:30: Get dressed
7:30–7:45: Get kids dressed
7:50: Leave for school!
8:00: Drop-off/first-day photos
8:05: Talk to Gwendolyn
8:15: Special coffee date with Gwendolyn??
9:30: Kids’ morning nap: clean kitchen, fold laundry
11:00: Check the mail!
11:05: Leave for library
11:15–12:00: Story time
12:05: Drive home
12:30: Lunch
1:00: Kids’ afternoon nap: start laundry, clean living room, check email
3:00: Leave for pickup
3:05: Catch up with Gwendolyn//text??
3:20: After-school snacks
3:30–4:00: Grocery store
5:00: Start dinner
5:30: End dinner
6:00: Clean kitchen
6:30: Baths
7:30: Bedtime routine
8:00: Special time with Kent
8:45: Lights out!!!
It’s 7:07, and I am awake, showered, and have started the coffee. Kent doesn’t need to be awake for thirteen more minutes, so I’m very ahead of schedule, according to my new planner. I draw a clean black line through each of those items. It’s satisfying. Is this me time? Gwendolyn James is always talking about me time, the importance of having “an essential self-care routine for all mamas.” Her Instagram, @GwendolynJamesStyle, is full of wisdom and inspiration. Gwendolyn says that we should start each day with an attitude of gratitude and that our thoughts become things. So, if I think, The twins are going to be really difficult if they don’t nap for at least ninety minutes this afternoon, well, guess what? They will be really difficult if they don’t nap for at least ninety minutes this afternoon! She says that if we aren’t happy with our lives, that has nothing to do with anything or anyone but us. Gwendolyn says that daily meditation is the key to a balanced life. Even her kids meditate!
I have exactly eleven minutes left until Kent and the kids wake up.
Gwendolyn says to find a quiet, peaceful place where you can sit uninterrupted. I choose the kitchen table, which is still clean from the wipe-down I gave it last night. Thanks for that, Past Kiki, I think. You’re welcome, I reply. My attitude of gratitude is already working!
Thoughts become things. Thoughts become things. Today, I will talk to Gwendolyn. I will meet a new mom friend. I’ll have a special coffee date. I will not be weird and awkward, and nobody will regret talking to me.
I breathe in. I breathe out.
“KIKI? KIKI!” KENT IS SHAKING MY SHOULDERS. WHERE AM I?
What happened?
“KIKI. It’s seven thirty! Why are you asleep?” Kent’s face is crisscrossed by the crease lines from the pillowcase. He has the adorable habit of sleeping facedown, like a hibernating frog. Behind him, the kids are standing, confused, hungry, still in their pajamas.
Did he say seven thirty?! No. No. No. NO. NO.
Seven thirty is not good. Seven thirty is when the kids and I should be dressed and getting in formation to load into the van. “I was meditating,” I blurt out, but Kent is already halfway out the kitchen, probably on his way to take the shower he should have taken five minutes ago.
“Kiki,” he says, sighing tenderly, “this is why I got you a planner, honey bunny.”
I flip my planner back open to today.
Today will be a good day, I tell myself. Thoughts become things.
BERNARD REFUSED TO WEAR THE OUTFIT I PICKED OUT FOR him today. I bought it through one of Gwendolyn’s affiliate links. It was a cute little pair of shorts that had an attached set of suspenders, with coordinating knee socks and saddle shoes. It’s exactly what Blair and Gandhi are wearing. They could have matched! Then I could have talked to Gwendolyn about clothes and shopping! Wait, did I buy Bernard a girls’ outfit? No. It’s unisex. Gwendolyn doesn’t believe in gender, gender is over! It doesn’t matter, because Bernard refused to wear it anyway. Instead, he’s wearing a University of North Dakota T-shirt that he took from his little sister’s drawer, and one of Kent’s neckties, which he insisted on tying himself. It looks like a DIY bolo tie or something a drunk party clown would wear.
BEFORE BERNARD WAS BORN, I HAD THOUGHT OF MOTHERHOOD as a club I’d join the moment I gave birth. My baby would be the equivalent of receiving a Mom card: I could present Bernard to any other mother to instantly form the bonds of friendship. Instead, I found out that there were lots of different kinds of moms, and you could only befriend the moms who completely subscribed to the exact same list of beliefs and practices that you did. This was determined swiftly, and often without a conversation. Once, when Bernard was very little and I was pregnant with Clara and he was absolutely losing his mind in the grocery store checkout line, I handed him my phone just to get him to stop fussing. It wasn’t even unlocked, I knew screen time was bad, it was just the phone itself he wanted. Just holding it got him to stop screaming. In that silence, I heard a gasp behind me, and a mom reached across my cart to snatch the phone from Bernard’s chubby little hands. He screamed, and I stood there, dumbfounded, while this stranger explained to me that my phone was absolutely crawling in germs, that it was dirtier than a toilet seat! I have never gone back to that grocery store. Motherhood for me has been a series of interactions like this: of mothers sizing me up and then gently or not-so-gently closing their circle.
I tried the Crunchy Moms, whose kids have never eaten sugar and who only play with nontoxic, recycled, handmade toys cobbled by local artisans. They’re the moms who told me that LEGOs are an assault on our ecosystem and that soy is going to give Bernard cancer.
Then I tried the Attachment Moms, whose kids can breastfeed until they decide not to. They all seem to like harem pants? Kent said harem pants made it look like I was wearing a full diaper. The Attachment Moms were nice, but when they found out th
at Bernard slept in a crib they started sending me links about co-sleeping, and then stopped posting their meetups in the Facebook group.
There are Tiger Moms, but they scare me. I wasn’t intense enough to keep up, and Bernard refused to participate in any extracurriculars, even as an infant.
I tried the Fit Moms, but I couldn’t keep up with them either. The Strollercize classes were hard enough, but I can’t train for a 5K while pushing four kids in a stroller. Their motto was “STRONG AS A MOTHER,” but my mother smoked throughout my pregnancy so that I’d be a smaller baby, and I don’t think my lung capacity is as good as it would have been if she’d at least cut back to two or three cigs a day.
There are Cool Moms, of course, but they terrify me. How are you supposed to keep up with all the new memes and novelty tees with punny phrases on motherhood and wine? How do you make your hair messy on purpose?
I still don’t know what kind of a mom I am, but I am determined that this year will be different. A new start for me. I won’t just be a stay-at-home mom with four kids. I’ll be a stay-at-home mom with a kid who is in school. I’ll be a part of the Mom Squad. I’m going to be friends with Gwendolyn.
GWENDOLYN JAMES IS EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL IN REAL LIFE. I know she gets highlights (she did an Instagram live from the salon just to #keepitreal with her followers), but they look like they were painted on by God himself.
Today she’s wearing an outfit I haven’t seen her wear yet: they aren’t sweatpants, but they’re sort of sweatpants? But not like my University of North Dakota sweatpants that Kent gave me when I was pregnant with Bernard. These are . . . sexy sweatpants? And they show off her smooth, tan calves. Does she shave every day? No way. She doesn’t shave at all. I bet she doesn’t even have leg hair.
Bernard has already run ahead, but Clara is walking unsteadily in front of the stroller, where the twins are giggling. I paid a lot of money for a stroller that has a special platform for her to stand on, but she refuses to use it. She’s a “strong-willed child,” which my mom would have called “a problem child.”
“Claraaaaa!” I sing to her. “Let’s play a game called walk in a straight line!”
Clara changes direction again, and the front wheel of the stroller clips the back of her leg. We’ve got a toddler down.
Bernard doesn’t mind that his sister is yowling in pain in front of his school, but the twins are both parrots, and even though they are not even a little bit hurt, they join their sister in creating a full-on a cappella chorus of screaming children. For a moment, I consider just leaving them all there, getting in my van, and driving away. Maybe all the way to North Dakota. Maybe South Dakota. Maybe even Kansas, depending on traffic. I’d throw the Kidz Bop CD out the window on the freeway and stop at the McDonald’s drive-thru just for myself. I’d eat my fries one at a time instead of trying to pour them down my throat while they’re still boiling hot just so I can have enough calories in my body to survive wrestling the twins in and out of their car seats.
My daydream is interrupted by a mom. A mom! She’s clearly already done with drop-off, and she’s on the way to her car. “Hope your morning gets a little better.” She winks at me. “We’ve all been there.”
Be normal. Be normal. Be normal.
“Great, how are you?” I say, and she graciously pretends that makes sense. I want to say more, I want to ask her if she has time to get a coffee, or if she wants to meet up before pickup. But I can tell from her outfit and her car that she’s on her way to the office. That she takes her coffee like she takes her meetings: standing up at an ergonomically designed desk.
Parents aren’t allowed past the front door of McKinley on the first day of school, owing to some “misunderstandings” between staff and parents that have only been alluded to vaguely in the daily emails that Gwendolyn sends from the Mom Squad. Instead, all the moms have congregated in groups on the front lawn. They look so natural, like this is something they do every day: just stand around with their friends in cute outfits having regular conversations.
Be normal. Be normal. Be normal.
Today, I know, my thoughts will become things. Today, I will meet Gwendolyn. I’ll give her the gift I made for her—a throw pillow that’s printed with some of her best Instagram photos—and tell her how much her account has inspired me. She’ll be so flattered, but also humble. “You inspire me,” she’ll say, bringing me in for a hug. “I love this.” Then we’ll have a special coffee date. Then we’ll be friends; and next year, she’ll be posting photos of all our kids on the yearly spirit quest through Joshua Tree, which I learned on Wikipedia is not just a U2 album that my parents forbade me from listening to because they believed that secular rock music was the work of the Devil but is also a place where Gwendolyn takes her family each year just to revive their spirits and renew their sense of purpose in the world.
Gwendolyn is standing with her closest friends. I don’t know them, but I know of them. She tags them in her photos. One of them makes jewelry and the other one has shoulder muscles that make me slightly scared and a little tingly in my swimsuit zone. Neither of them has as many Instagram followers as Gwendolyn, but they are definitely Cool Moms.
“Hi, Gwendolyn!” I say. I was hoping it would sound normal, but my voice catches in my throat, and what comes out is more of a gurgly whisper, like I’m a troll hiding under a bridge that Gwendolyn James is walking across in her eco-friendly, fair trade shoes.
“Hi, Gwendolyn!” I try again. The conversation pauses, and for a moment, the sun that is Gwendolyn shines upon me.
“Hiiiiiiii,” she coos back to me.
I don’t know what comes out of my mouth next. It’s a collection of every thought I’ve ever had but cut up and rearranged like the verbal equivalent of a ransom note made from magazine cutouts. I watch as Gwendolyn’s smile turns to a pained grimace, and then as her eyes shift to meet those of her friends.
I’m blowing it. NO. THOUGHTS BECOME THINGS. I am doing great!?!
I thrust the gift bag forward, suddenly embarrassed by how childish it looks, how cheesy my bubble letters must look to a woman who taught Gwyneth Paltrow brush calligraphy. Gwendolyn smiles, but there’s a hint of something else there, like the smile the woman at the grocery store gave me when she took my phone from my screaming toddler. I’m imagining that, of course. My meditation app would tell me that I am letting my thoughts wash me away in the tide of anxiety. I sweep away that anxious thought and struggle for the next thing to say.
“Would you like to have coffee?” I croak, but the moment is over. Gwendolyn’s voice, clear and confident, eclipses my own little whisper. “Thanks so much,” she says to me, and turns back to her friends, closing the circle behind her.
5
Amy
Sometimes, when I’m sleeping, the actual dream will be interrupted by an email notification. It’s like my dream is the computer screen and whatever is happening in my subconscious—I’m running through my high school trying to make it to my math final, or I’m trying to swim away from a shark but the ocean has turned into nacho cheese—will be interrupted by a soft ping and a small window, bearing only the first part of an email that is always, always marked as urgent.
Subject: 911!!! Call-in info for 8am conf??
Subject: URGENT where tf is our packaging copy??
It’s like having a nightmare within a nightmare, and after a night like that, I always feel cheated, like those eight (okay, six and a half) hours I spent being interrupted by imaginary emails should count as work hours.
The reality of my day isn’t much different from that nightmare. I’m the Sales and Marketing Director of Coffee Collective, a forward-thinking curator of highly crafted coffees that disrupts the traditional bean-to-cup coffee model by reimagining your morning routine. If that’s hard for you to comprehend, let me put it this way: we sell coffee.
I’m good at my job. No, I’m great at my job. In the past eight years, I’ve single-handedly built us from a hobby company founded by a bored r
ich kid named Dale, who Mike calls the Child Executive Officer (not fair, Dale was twenty when he started the company, which is legally an adult), to a legitimate business enterprise that supplies overpriced coffee that is most definitely the same stuff you can buy at Costco, but in a folksy craft paper bag with a “hand-stamped” logo across the front.
My boss, Dale, is a mostly-well-intentioned rich kid who will tell you and anyone who asks that he dropped out of college to pursue his dream of building a business on his own. The thing is, anyone with Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram and a little time on their hands can scroll through his posts and see that, really, he failed out of three different state schools before his parents gave him a large chunk of money to keep him busy and out of the family business.
I was Employee #1 at Coffee Collective. I met Dale when Dylan and Jane were still little, and I was working crazy hours at an ad agency downtown. I dropped Jane and Dylan off at daycare before the sun was even up and picked them up when it was dark. I saw them for maybe forty-five minutes a night before they fell asleep, and I spent most of those forty-five minutes on my laptop, anxiously replying to client emails. On Saturdays, we tried to explore farmer’s markets and pop-up shops in the city, to spend as much time as a family as we could. One sunny spring day, while Mike and I argued over whether a thirty-dollar jar of local honey was in the budget, I saw him: a dopey loner standing awkwardly at a folding table with a cheap vinyl banner duct-taped along the front. He made eye contact with me, and my motherly heart swelled in pity for this doofus. Two cups of coffee later, I was buzzing with ideas and too much caffeine. He needed branding—actual branding, not just the default font in Microsoft Paint. He needed a sales rep and a marketing director. He needed a point of view and some confidence. Dale nodded along with everything I said, a mixture of awe and fear on his face.
Bad Moms Page 3
