Confessions of a Domestic Failure

by Bunmi Laditan

  David stepped out of the bathroom in his blue-and-white striped pajama pants and white tee and saw me grinning.

  “You met this woman where, again?” he asked, sliding into bed next to me.

  I frowned. “David. This is how moms meet,” I said, trying to sound like I’d done this before. “If I get any weird vibes or if she sacrifices a lamb on the front lawn, I’ll get right out of there. I’ll go back for Aubrey the next day,” I teased.

  David smiled and slithered his way up the bed toward me like a crocodile. He was in a great mood today after winning a bid to handle the PR for LuxSpecs, a high-end line of sunglasses.

  He reached for me and wrapped his arms around me, massaging my back.

  My danger alarm went off, and I gave him a quick shoulder squeeze.

  “Watcha doing there, buddy?” I asked.

  He purred in my neck. I knew exactly what he was doing, but seeing as how I’d just gotten Aubrey to bed fifteen minutes ago and hadn’t had a chance to shower since...she was born, not to mention spending a day being drooled and spit up on, I felt about as sexy as an ingrown toenail. We really should have sex soon, it had been too long. Just not tonight.

  “David, David,” I said, backing away from his neck nuzzles. “I haven’t showered in forever. I feel like a moldy dishcloth. Rain check?” I felt terrible. Minus-twenty wife points.

  “Awwww,” he said, and kissed me tenderly. His lips were so soft. Those lips. I loved them the minute I first kissed him, all those years ago in the rain outside of our office building. We’d been friends for three years and neither of us knew that the other had been harboring feelings until that kiss.

  I kissed him back and sighed, remembering the simpler days when my hair was clean and we could spend an entire Saturday morning snuggling in bed.

  He pulled me into a spooning position and began exploring my body with his hands. I yelped self-consciously when they grazed my stomach. I still couldn’t bear him feeling the loose kangaroo pouch Aubrey had left me with. Hot shame shot down my spine and I covered my abdomen with my hands, protecting it from his.

  He sensed my discomfort and placed his hands over mine. “Hey,” he said, in the most gentle voice I’ve ever heard him use. He touched my face and whispered into my ear. “You’re beautiful. All of you.”

  Butterflies danced around my stomach and I felt so moved, tears welled up in my eyes. I loved this man. I turned toward his warm body, gazed into his brown eyes. He meant it. He really did think I was beautiful. I kissed him and almost heard the rain from that evening so many years ago hitting the pavement.

  Thirty seconds later we were breaking our dry streak. It was fantastic—it always is, even with me insisting that the lights stay off lest my jiggles be seen. Afterward he hugged me tight, as if afraid to lose me again to the world of mother.

  “I miss you,” he whispered into my ear. Tears sprang into my eyes again. Dang hormones. I missed me, too.

  I wished I could promise him that I’d be this person, this loving, giving, sexy person again tomorrow night or the next night, but I couldn’t. I tried to squash the feelings of guilt swirling around my psyche.

  I kissed his cheek. “I know.”

  He turned over and fell fast asleep. Normally I would, too, but I couldn’t quit my thoughts.

  I tried to think about something else. My very first playdate. Tomorrow.

  I decided to dress Aubrey in her pale pink jumper and heather-gray top with the matching gray booties. She looked like a baby model in that ensemble. It was made by some fancy Italian designer. Joy gave it to me as her way of apologizing for #BabyNameGate.

  I’d actually tried to invite Joy. After all, Emily Walker wouldn’t be worried about Joy stealing her friends. Emily Walker would be secure in her friend-getting abilities and say, “The more the merrier!”

  But, of course, Joy had to get all weird. “You met this woman while discount shopping and are going to her house?”

  You’d think I was taking Aubrey to an abandoned meat warehouse at midnight. Classic Joy. She decided against coming, which was fine by me. Anyway, she had tons of friends from her scrapbooking club, book club and cookie swap. I’d asked if I could join the cookie club once, but all of the cookies have to be homemade so it wasn’t a good fit.

  I wiggled in bed a little, getting myself comfortable.

  I was almost asleep when I heard David say, “Do you smell yogurt?”

  Thursday, January 24, 9 A.M.

  Isabel’s party was in an hour and we were ready.

  I texted Isabel and told her that though I’d invited my sister she couldn’t make it and I’d be coming alone. She’s so sweet, she offered to talk to Joy directly but I let her know it’d be a lost cause.

  Aubrey looked absolutely adorable! I need to submit her photo to modeling agencies, seriously. I showered, brushed my teeth, and put on foundation, mascara AND lipstick. I was wearing a dress that fit like a (slightly tight) glove and I felt incredible. I should do this every day! I didn’t have time to make the Lemon Poppyseed Cake, so I would be picking up a dozen doughnuts on the way there. Wish me luck!

  11 P.M.

  Well.

  I’m not even sure where to start.

  Aubrey and I arrived at 10:15, just a bit late. There was a long line at the drive-through for the doughnuts.

  When I got to Isabel’s house I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a woman with red hair holding a clipboard. She asked if I was Ashley, scribbled something down and gave me a name tag with my name already on it. That didn’t immediately strike me as odd. I’d never been on a playdate. Maybe there are so many moms that they wear name tags when getting to know one another.

  She led me to the living room where eight other moms with babies in their laps and toddlers walking around aimlessly were watching a video on the large flatscreen. The woman showed me to the only seat left available. At that point, I wondered what we were doing, but I saw Isabel smiling at me from the left of the television screen and figured this was some kind of chick flick movie time.

  Then the film started. Wait no, the INFOMERCIAL started.

  A woman in a bikini wearing some kind of linen girdle popped up on the screen. “Are you ready to feel sexy again?”

  That’s when I started to feel like an idiot.

  “In just three hours you’ll feel the YES Wrap start to shrink your belly fat and trim your waistline! Get ready for a lean, mean tummy! I love my YES Wraps and you will, too!”

  I watched in stunned horror for the next twenty minutes as women mummified their abdomens while animated fat cells floated out of their bodies. Finally the video went to black and Isabel walked to the front of the room holding a green and white box with YES Wrap emblazoned on the sides.

  “Does anyone have any questions?”

  I knew I shouldn’t have raised my hand, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Is this the playdate?” I asked.

  Isabel fake smiled at me. “Absolutely! I’ve invited all of you here to make some friends and learn about a product that has helped moms around the world lose weight naturally.”

  I went on. “Right. So you invited me—no, targeted me—because you think I’m fat?”

  The fake smile didn’t fade but her eyes flickered.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t target you. I shop at BabyOutlet all the time with my nephew.”

  At this point I may have snapped. “HE’S NOT EVEN YOUR SON? YOU’RE NOT EVEN A MOM?”

  I don’t know what came over me. The humiliation turned into hot, searing anger.

  “I MAY NOT HAVE A TIGHT STOMACH BUT AT LEAST I’M NOT A LIAR. YOU CAN STICK YOUR WRAPS UP YOUR—” then I noticed the kids in the room “—BUTT!”

  Isabitch started to speak but I ripped off my name tag and
a patch of my dress at the same time, grabbed Aubrey’s car seat and stormed out, but not before scooping up my box of doughnuts. I ate five of them this afternoon and another two after dinner. So much for a lean, mean tummy.

  Joy texted to ask how the playdate went. I said it was a blast. She wants to come to the next one.

  Just my luck that when a (fake) mom wants to get to know me it’s because she thinks I could stand to lose a few pounds and she wants to make a few bucks off me in the process.

  FML.

  Friday, January 25, 10 A.M.

  Visualize what you want out of your mommy life. Just because you’ve had kids doesn’t mean you can’t live the reality of your dreams. My five children, beautiful husband and I take two tropical beach vacations a year thanks to the power of intention.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  I was shaking off the predatory playdate. I needed to move on. I needed to put my energy elsewhere.

  Wishes For My Fairy Godmother.

  - Take 25lbs off of my body. Not boobs or butt, please, and not via some playdate marketing scam

  - Give them to Suzy Wexler (kidding)

  - Make sure Aubrey grows up to be happy, healthy and safe (move that to the top)

  - Make me a great housewife

  - World peace (move that to second place)

  - End famine (move this up, too)

  - Delete Facebook.com

  - Pass a law that all boxes of diapers should be accompanied with a Buy One Get One Free coupon for a bottle of wine

  - Make me a nicer wife

  - Remove all calories from wine but keep taste intact

  - Organize my house

  Impossible Goal of the Day: Improve my grocery shopping.

  Speaking of the power of intention, I ran to the market today and actually took a list with me.

  Grocery List

  Kale (For Emily Walker’s famous kale, quinoa, and fat-free feta salad with pomegranate vinaigrette.)

  Quinoa.

  Fat-free feta (Even though fat-free cheese should be illegal.)

  One pomegranate.

  Blueberries.

  Radishes.

  Organic milk (In Motherhood Better, Emily says regular milk can cause toddlers to go through puberty.)

  Eggs.

  Flour.

  Butter.

  Cream of tartar (For baking, because I’m going to start doing this any minute now.)

  Cherries.

  Apples.

  Celery.

  Chicken.

  Oats.

  Toilet paper.

  Cheese.

  Tomatoes.

  Onions.

  Red peppers.

  Here’s what I bought:

  Kale (For rotting in the fridge. Let’s be real—I’m never going to make that salad.)

  Quinoa (I have no idea how to cook this. Is it rice? Is it pasta? Nobody knows.)

  A pomegranate (For watching dry out in the fruit bowl over the next several weeks.)

  I didn’t buy the fat-free feta. It felt wrong.

  Organic milk.

  Eggs.

  Cookie dough.

  Honey Nut Cinnamon Crunch cereal.

  A pound cake.

  Toilet paper.

  Gum.

  Sugar-free fake strawberry poison liquid drink mix (for weight loss.)

  6-pack glazed doughnuts.

  Hot dogs (for snacking.)

  Frozen Tater Tots.

  Apples.

  Cherries.

  Strawberries.

  Frozen onion rings.

  Tortilla chips (for unexpected guests.)

  Nacho cheese dip (also for guests.)

  3 tank tops.

  2 pairs black pants.

  Running shoes.

  Workout DVD.

  Water bottle.

  Ice cream.

  Someone told me they named it “pound cake” because it contains a pound of butter. I prefer to think it’s just honest labeling: you gain a pound per slice. But on the bright side, butter contains milk, which contains calcium, so in a small way, pound cake is helping fortify my bones. I also always eat pound cake with strawberries, which contain minerals and vitamin C.

  Confession: I hadn’t showered in four days and I was kind of okay with it. That’s what deodorant is for, right? Right now, I had six layers of Lady Smells Bad antiperspirant on my underarms. It’s strong enough for a man but pH balanced for a mom who can’t find the time to wash her privates.

  I smelled like a cross between sheets that were put away wet and very expensive cheese.

  I checked my bank statement after this “grocery” shop, and do you know what stood out? Every third line was either for vanilla lattes or Burger Central. The only two food groups I consumed were caffeine and fast food. It wasn’t my fault, though. Junk food and caffeine were all that were keeping me going. I needed these treats to make it through the day. I didn’t get to sleep anymore, there was no “me” time, I didn’t have friends—the value menu, sweet caffeinated beverages and wine were currently pleasure central and I would not apologize for it. My pants might, though, because they were stretched to capacity.

  PS: Emily would announce the twelve Motherhood Better Bootcamp winners on her show in a couple of days. She said they received over 7,000 entries. Please fairy godmother, come through for me.

  11 P.M.

  Motherhood is an ashram; our religion is love, diaper changes and sleepless nights. This begins with pregnancy. Speak to and dance with your unborn baby every day—preferably to music that features either harps or Tibetan gongs.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Fun fact: Did you know that some women take their placenta home with them after giving birth? Some send it away to be freeze-dried into capsules and others eat it raw, like sashimi...supposedly it helps balance out the hormones and make you feel like a normal person again faster.

  I was on the Mommy Chat online message board complaining about how tired and emotional I always am, as one does on a Friday night post baby, and someone asked if I’d eaten mine. I said no, and she responded with, “That explains everything.”

  Really? So motherhood would be easier for me if I’d just cooked up the afterbirth like Bolognese and served it over linguini with a side of garlic bread?

  Joy’s neighbor buried her placenta in their backyard under a tree. If you bury a placenta under an apple tree, are the fruits then an apple/placenta hybrid? If you bury it in a vineyard, would the wine have hints of afterbirth?

  Sommelier in a fancy restaurant: “This full-bodied pinot grigio hails from Napa Valley. It was aged in maple oak barrels. You’ll notice hints of elderberry and subtle notes of the placenta of a seven-pound six-ounce child.”

  Maybe I should have kept my placenta. The birthing center offered, but between figuring out how to install the car seat, heal my broken vagina and oh, yeah, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that a human baby was coming home with me, I’d felt like I had enough on my plate (no pun intended).

  I was fascinated by the thing, though.

  It was way bigger than I thought it would be. In my mind I imagined a pork chop but it was more like a blobby T-bone steak. It had all kinds of veins on it. An old high school friend on Facebook dipped her wet, bloody placenta into red paint and threw it against a canvas. The art now hangs in her family room.

  No comment.

  If I had taken my placenta, what would I have brought it home in? A freezer bag? Do they put it in a to-go box like restaurant leftovers? Wrap it in foil or maybe drop it into a Styrofoam box complete with utensils, and salt and pepper packets?

  Mom to nurse: “Ca
n I have this wrapped up? I’m taking it with me.”

  There was a whole section of the Mommy Chat website, I was discovering now, dedicated to placenta recipes. Smoothies, cakes, even stir fry. STIR FRY. Bok choy, onions, bean sprouts and thinly sliced placenta. Maybe a little Chianti on the side?

  This was way too much for me. I should go to bed.

  The contestants chosen for the Motherhood Better Bootcamp program would be announced tomorrow live on the show. If I hear my name I am going to absolutely freak.

  Saturday, January 26, 10 A.M.

  Of course Emily had to keep everyone on their toes until the last sixty seconds of her show. Well, I didn’t make it into the Motherhood Better Bootcamp, but I wasn’t going to let it get to me. Emily said something on her show today that really struck me. “I wasn’t born a good mom, I willed myself into one.” All I needed to do was try harder. I needed to put the same energy that I once put into my job into motherhood.

  I had Emily’s book. I could do this on my own. I decided to embark on a mission called Ashley the Perfect-ish Mom. First thing in the morning I was going to join a gym (or at least research gyms), eat healthy and be the best, most attentive mom ever.

  It was time for me to stop living in dirty sweats and move up to the fancy $10 stretch pants from ShopMart. I was going to start dressing up Aubrey like a human and not a Les Misérables extra. I was browsing Etsy right then, picking out some bows. She needed them. I’m not saying she looked like a boy, but I swear she could be sitting in a pink stroller, wearing a pink and purple dress, with a fluorescent flashing sign that read, I’M FEMALE, and people would still ask “How old is your son?”

  Anyway, maybe I’d even start juicing once I figured out exactly what that was and if mix-ins like tequila were allowed (tequila is from a plant).

  I had this.

  Impossible Goal of the Day: Get accepted into a group of mom friends, or at least make one awesome best friend sometime this century.

  I joined three local mom Facebook groups but hadn’t posted yet.

  What would I even say?