Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  “Kiki?” he asks, and I watch Kiki’s giant eyes pop out of her little tiny skull.

  “Kenton! Hi, baby!” she squeaks, her voice rising to octaves I thought only dogs could hear. “How fun to see you!”

  So this is the Kent who likes his briefs folded before they’re put in his drawer. The Kent who requires Kiki to email him the “dinner menu” for the night so he can approve it before she starts cooking. The Kent who needs to get kicked in the throat by a woman who is almost a yellow belt and should have worn jeans with a little stretch today.

  “Kiki . . . what are you doing here? Where are the kids?”

  “They’re with a babysitter, dipshit,” I interrupt. “Why are you here?”

  Kent ignores me. “A babysitter . . . isn’t that your job, Kiki?”

  Even Amy doesn’t like the sound of that.

  “Really, dude? You think this woman is a babysitter? She’s the mother of your children. You better get on your hands and knees and THANK her for—”

  “You’re right, Kent,” Kiki interrupts with a smile. “I’ll see you at home. We’re having pork tenderloin and new potatoes tonight.” Kiki puts on her backpack and opens her Velcro wallet, placing four crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table. She has literally no idea what a Shirley Temple costs.

  Amy and I sit in silence, watching her walk through the dining room. Across the restaurant, Kent and I lock eyes. He smiles at me, and I raise my glass to the dickbag who just ruined our lunch.

  “You’re going down, son,” I mouth to him, smiling.

  20

  Kiki

  I have six followers on Instagram, and two of them are my mom. She forgot the password to her first account, so she made another. Still, I can always count on her for a like and a comment. When my phone buzzes, I sometimes think, Oh! Maybe that’s a new follower! Or, Oh! Maybe that’s a text from another mom who found me in the MFM part of Craigslist I’ve been posting in.

  But usually it’s Kent. Kent recently added this app called HNYDO that is supposed to be pronounced “Honey-Do,” but I guess they just didn’t know how to spell it? It lets him add all the things he’s asked me to do, and then it reminds me to do them if I haven’t yet. Each time I complete a task, I’m supposed to click a little button, and a little bee pops up and says, “Thanks, Honey!” I told him that I liked my planner just fine, but he said he likes to know what I’m doing all day while he’s at work financing our lifestyle.

  I took one photo today, the kind that Gwendolyn usually takes, where you hold your camera above your plate so everyone knows what you are about to eat for lunch. I haven’t done this before, because usually my lunches are just the crusts from the kids’ sandwiches, the milk they leave in their sippy cups, and whatever half-chewed carrots or goldfish crackers they leave behind. Sometimes I’m lucky and they leave half a quesadilla completely untouched.

  But today, I ordered a real lunch. There were the cutest little rolls, and tiny little butters that went with them. I got a niçoise salad, which I thought was pronounced “knee-coyze” but the cute waiter told me it’s “knee-swaaah,” and I got a little butterfly in my tummy when he said it like that, the kind of butterfly I used to get in college when Kent would pick me up for dinner in his Toyota Corolla with the windows down.

  It’s a good picture, even if you can kind of see the shadow of my phone hovering over the salad.

  Fun lunch with the girls today! #salad #lunch #instafood

  My phone buzzes less than thirty seconds after I post it. Mom.

  Glad you’re out having fun, Kiki! You deserve it!

  Another buzz. Did she accidentally post it twice?

  @_jane_and_dylans_mom has tagged you in a post

  I have never been tagged in a post, and my hands are shaking as I click the notification. Amy’s account is mostly photos of the kids: Jane standing in a soccer field, hands on her hips, a medal around her neck. Dylan snuggled up with Roscoe. Mike makes an appearance in some of the photos, but Amy never does. I’m not in any photos with my kids, either. I’m always the one taking them. But this is a picture of me. I didn’t even see Amy take it today. I’m mid-laugh, probably because when Carla talks about dicks, I get really uncomfortable and have to laugh so I don’t freak out. I look pretty. I look happy. She’s written a caption, too:

  So lucky to know this special lady. Here’s to new friends. Xo.

  I double-tap the center of the photo, and a small red heart appears on the image, right above where my own heart is. I don’t like it. I love it.

  21

  Amy

  The donut holes were right at the gas station checkout. They were (at least) a day old, so they were practically free. They practically forced me to buy them. And I had to pass McKinley on my way home, anyway, and there was an open parking spot right out front, which there never is, so what I’m saying is, it was meant to be.

  Ever since Dylan started kindergarten, the bake sale has been my own personal hell. I’d spend months scouring blogs and Instagram for inspiration, weeks hunting down allergen-safe ingredients, and days trying to work out the kinks in the recipe. And then I’d arrive, set up my little shop, and immediately feel my body flood with cortisol while I mentally tallied whose booth had more kids crowded around it, whose cookies were cuter, and which moms did a shittier job than me.

  But walking in the door today feels great. I’m just here to enjoy myself. I’m going to eat some cookies, and not even think about how many scoops and squeezes the barre instructor would punish me with.

  There’s an audible gasp when I walk in the door. It’s probably only audible because the room is so quiet. There’s no hustle and bustle, no laughter, and absolutely no gluten.

  There’s still one open table on the other side of the cafeteria, so I make my way over. Every other mom has gone full-on Pinterest: they had crafted hand-painted signs that coordinated perfectly with their tablecloths and eco-friendly disposable plates. Beckett’s mom had a neon sign made for her booth. Jasmine’s mom had branded napkins printed. I knew I was phoning it in with the donut holes, but now I’m actually feeling insecure about phoning it in. Should I have picked up some coffee or something to go with them? No. No. That’s the old Amy talking. This is New Amy. And New Amy is just here to enjoy herself and raise money for . . . what exactly are we raising money for?

  I settle into my spot, wedged between Anna’s Avocado “Cheese” Cake and Vicki’s Veggie Bites.

  “Those look amazing,” whispers Vicki, not making eye contact.

  “Oh my GOD, Amy. You’re killing me,” whispers Anna. “I can smell the sugar.”

  My insecurity vanishes. I’m just giving the people what they want. I’m fine. I pop open the BPA-filled plastic clamshells and sit back, putting my feet up. The combination of lard and sugar is sniffed out immediately by a kid from Jane’s class holding a bar that appears to be made of condensed bird food.

  “Ten dollars,” I say, and the kid reaches for his money agreeably.

  “How much?” I hear a man ask, and look up to see the Hot Widow. I mean, he has a name. It’s Jesse. But he’s hot and he’s a widow. Beside him, his daughter grins.

  I throw a donut hole to the birdseed kid. “Enjoy! Tell your friends!” I turn back to Jesse. “They’re . . . ten cents?”

  He hands me a crumpled dollar.

  “I don’t have change,” I realize, embarrassed.

  “That’s fine,” he replies, smiling. “I know where you live.”

  What?

  “Okay, I meant that as a joke, but I’m a man and I shouldn’t say those things to a woman, because it sounds threatening and inappropriate. I just meant that we live close to each other.”

  We live near each other? I do not remember seeing him around the neighborhood.

  “Your daughter is my daughter’s Big Kid Buddy. She talks a lot about Jane . . . SO! I’ve made this weird enough. Have a good night, Amy.”

  He turns away, his ears turning red. It’s been a while since I’ve f
elt anything other than cramps in my lady area, but something is happening down there. Jesse’s thumb had grazed mine when I took the dollar bill, and that small, accidental touch flipped a switch inside of me.

  I’m sitting, feet up, licking powdered sugar off my fingers and fantasizing about what Jesse looks like without a shirt on when Gwendolyn strikes.

  “Amy. Mitchell.” She is trying to whisper, but her rage makes it seem more like a shout. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here?”

  “It’s the bake sale, right? I mean, I know I resigned and all, but I’d signed up, and I didn’t want to leave you hanging. Donut hole?” I hold the plastic container up like a peace offering, as if Gwendolyn has let an artificial flavor pass her lips since the millennium.

  “Is this funny to you?” she whispers, her pack of Moms gathering behind her, creating a wall that shields the rest of the room from Gwendolyn’s true nature.

  “Look,” I say, “I was going to make them at home, but honestly I kinda lost track of things lately—”

  Gwendolyn’s arms—lean and long—strike quickly, the left knocking the donuts from my outstretched hands, and the right sending the second package tumbling to the floor. Her kickboxing classes are really paying off.

  “Listen here, Amy Mitchell.” She says my name like it’s in quotation marks. “I know that everyone thinks you’re sooooo sweet. And soooo relatable. And sooooo smart. But you know what I think you are? I think you’re a liability. This might be a joke to you, but it isn’t to me. Because this school has high standards. And we have high standards. And that’s why our school’s test scores are the highest in the state, has the best college acceptance rate in the state, and, yeah, the best bake sale in the state, six years running. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, Amy. But I happen to believe that excellent schools make excellent children. And that’s what we want—excellent children.”

  “Don’t we want happy children?” I counter, tentatively.

  “Excellent children are happy children, Amy! Because losers are never happy, and nobody wants to be a loser! Did you forget that when Mike left you?”

  That hits me in the gut. How does she know all this Mike stuff? Did I make some announcement that I forgot about? Is Mike out there parading his new Internet girlfriend around town? Normally I’d burst into tears, but for some reason I’ve broken into a reflexive smile. And my reflexive smile is making Gwendolyn even angrier.

  “Now, I know that you are hurting, and I wish you peace and love, and I pray for the healing of your marriage.”

  I know how angry I have to be to pray for someone, and I’m a little afraid at this point. But Gwendolyn isn’t done.

  “I want to remind you of something: which is that I am not just the head of the Mom Squad. I’m the chair of the board. The largest donor to McKinley in the history of our school. I sit on forty-seven councils and committees and task forces across the school and the school district. Nobody takes a class, kicks a ball, or plays a clarinet at this school without my say-so, and I can and will make life a living hell for you and your dirty little children, do you understand?”

  Yesterday, Gwendolyn had posted a guided meditation to her blog. The entire basis of it was to “cultivate a mindfulness practice based in loving kindness.” Today, she is foaming at the mouth, threatening my children over a few boxes of donut holes and one public outburst of mine. I am speechless.

  Gwendolyn closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, sighing openmouthed in my direction. Her breath smells like hay. When she opens her eyes, she smiles at me, as if she has just rebooted, and turns to her pack of acolytes, who turn and follow her like a row of baby ducks chasing their mother. Just one hangs back. Stacy and I have never had a conversation deeper than the typical pleasantries you exchange when you pass another mom in the hall, so I don’t know what I’m expecting when she lingers at my now-empty table.

  “You’re . . . so fucked,” she whispers. It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a fact.

  To: Amy Mitchell

  From: Ingrid Dawson

  Subject: Referral for Mental Health Specialist

  Dear Mrs. Mitchell,

  I’m Ingrid, one of the fifth-grade counselors here at McKinley. Today I had the pleasure of meeting with Jane, who was sent to the nurse’s office with stomach cramps and a racing heart. I’m so glad that she and I had a chance to connect. She is certainly a very driven girl, and you and your husband must be very proud of her.

  As you know, high-achieving girls tend to have high stress and high anxiety, as well. Per the voicemails I left you today, I am including several referrals to mental health counselors who specialize in childhood anxiety.

  Please contact me with any questions.

  Best,

  Ingrid

  The email should read, “Congratulations! You’ve failed your child! She’s a walking ball of anxiety, and even an adult who barely knows her can tell she’s wound a little too tightly! Don’t worry, it’ll definitely get worse when you tell her that her parents are getting a divorce!”

  I add “call counselors” to my to-do list, tap out a reply that I hope reads as grateful and not guilt-riddled, and then call the McKinley Absentee line.

  “Hello, this is Amy Mitchell, calling to let you know that Jane and Dylan Mitchell will be absent tomorrow due to a . . . family emergency. Thank you.”

  “MOM!”

  Jane clatters down the stairs like a newborn foal just trying to get her legs under her.

  “MOTHER. AMY!” Jane bursts into the kitchen, still trying to pull her leggings over her scrawny little bod. There is rage in her eyes. Behind her, Dylan stumbles in, more confused than upset.

  “School started ONE HOUR AGO,” Jane shouts, grabbing the keys to the van. “Why didn’t you wake us up? Stop smiling! We need to go. NOW.”

  I sip my coffee while she taps her foot impatiently.

  “No school today,” I say, turning the page of my newspaper.

  Jane rushes to the McKinley calendar that we keep on the fridge.

  “Yes, there is!” she shouts, jabbing her finger at the page.

  “Well, there is. Just . . . not for you two. I called you in sick.”

  Dylan gives a fist pump and runs over to hug me. “You’re the best mom in the whole world,” he whispers into my hair with his sleepy breath. “Can I go play Xbox?”

  Jane looks at me as if I’d just told her that what was in my coffee cup wasn’t coffee, but the blood of orphaned puppies.

  “You can’t . . . do that,” she says, but her face has softened.

  “I can do anything I want!” I say. “I’m a mom! Now, we have a full day to do anything we want. Except play Xbox. What do you all want to do? Go for a hike? Go to Fun City and ride some roller coasters? Go see a movie and order all the junk food we can handle? Jane, I’ll even let you eat popcorn and I won’t tell your orthodontist.”

  Jane’s agitation is obvious. Her shoulders remain tucked up by her ears as she kicks off her shoes and shoves me over on the banquette, reaching for my toast.

  “So we’re just going to do nothing?”

  WE LAST APPROXIMATELY THREE HOURS BEFORE JANE GETS antsy.

  “What if I just checked in online to see what assignments I’m missing, so I don’t fall behind?” she whines, as if watching Harry Potter on a weekday morning is an unjust punishment and not the dream day of basically any other kid.

  “JANE,” Dylan reprimands her, turning up the volume to cover her whining, “CHILL.”

  She points out that it’s easy for him to chill, because he’s never tried at anything. She is right. And today was supposed to be for Jane, anyway; I just felt bad making Dylan go to school if I was going to force Jane to play hooky. Dylan needs no help relaxing or going with the flow. If anything, he needs to learn how to swim. Jane, however, is already mentally calculating the potential hit her GPA would take from her missing one reading assignment. There is no amount of Judge Judy or Price Is Right that can cure thi
s. I need to do something more extreme. To take her to a place where she’ll have no access to screens or clocks or to-do lists. A sensory deprivation chamber would be ideal, or even a solitary confinement cell, but I don’t think that prisons allow you to just pop in for the afternoon.

  “That’s it,” I say, standing up and brushing the crumbs off my jammies. “Jane, get dressed. Dylan, you’re on your own for the rest of the afternoon.”

  CARLA IS ALREADY SMOKING BY THE SIDE DOOR WHEN WE arrive. “Welcome!” she coughs, tossing her cigarette in the dumpster and waving the air around her. “Get inside, and don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

  Inside the spa, the air smells like eucalyptus and lavender, and, if you get too close to Carla, a faint hint of Marlboro.

  “You’re a lucky girl,” Carla says to Jane, guiding us both to the lounge. “I never got to do this with my mom.”

  Jane doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, because I’m too busy getting high on the essential oils flowing through the air.

  “It’s a special blend that’s scientifically proven to relax your brain and also get you to spend a fuck-ton of money,” Carla says, “and I tell ya what, it works. I’m Zen as fuck after a day of work.”

  “Now,” she says, handing us each a plush white bathrobe and a pair of slippers, “the place is yours. Tea and coffee and snacks are in the lounge. Steam, sauna, and Turkish baths are down the hall; mud baths are just off the atrium. If anyone asks . . . say she’s a Make A Wish kid. She looks sad enough.”

  Carla’s right. Jane does look sad. She looks more than sad. She looks . . . depleted. She looks like me, and she doesn’t even have a boss or college debt to worry about!

  “What?” Jane snaps, and I realize I’ve been staring at her like a mom in a life insurance commercial watching her baby sleep.

  “Nothing!” I lie. I step out of my jeans and pull my sweatshirt over my head, and Jane squeals in disgust. I forgot how embarrassing it is when you realize that your mom has a body. I pull on my bathrobe and realize what Jane is screeching about. It isn’t her mother’s body that shocked her, it’s her mother’s body hair. Not just a little bit of stubble under the arms, but a full-on mane. And a coat of leg hair that makes it look like I’m wearing leggings. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little.