#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Please.” She raised her eyebrows in hope and begged with the big, brown eyes that always won me over.

  I was going to hell…with my sister…on the short bus without wine.

  Before we left the house, I removed the batteries and tossed the monster into the washer along with a load of clothes and sent a silent prayer up to a God who was going to damn me for this stunt. All the way to work, I justified my actions. Truthfully, there was no words out of Jessie’s mouth were about that animal. “Is Roly ready, Mama?” Her eyes were hopeful, and I officially sucked.

  “I need to put him in the dryer, Jess.”

  She ran to the laundry room and pulled open the front of the washing machine. Her little hands dug through the wet clothes in search of her precious dog. The dog I hated, loathed with the intensity of a thousand fires. I heard him in my dreams—he was a nightmare whether I was asleep or awake…at least before he met the spin cycle.

  When she finally found him amongst the clothes, he was damp but not overly wet.

  “He doesn’t need dried. I’ll put him in a blankie to keep him warm.” She ran off to her room with Roly in her hands and the batteries still sitting on top of the dryer.

  I didn’t tell her and didn’t offer to put the AAs back in, so she found out on her own. I’d just wait to see what happened. Maybe I’d get lucky, and she’d forget her woobie was supposed to drive all those around her certifiably insane.

  Three-point-seven seconds later, she returned. “Him doesn’t work.” She had pulled off the door to the battery compartment to show me it was still empty. Before I responded, she pointed to the AAs on the dryer.

  Any other time I’d be grateful for my poker face, tonight it just felt shady. I knew what I’d done, and Jess was about to figure it out. “You might want to let him dry before you put those back in.”

  She nodded and skipped off with Roly tucked under her arm. A silent puppy ate dinner with us, then sat on the bathroom counter while Jessie took a bath, and at bedtime, she asked about the batteries. I’d put it off as long as possible. I kissed her forehead, went to retrieve the useless Energizers from the laundry room, and then prepared myself for my daughter to cry. The pain would be short-lived, but my relief would be eternal.

  I popped the batteries in the compartment, closed it, and handed her the dog. She nuzzled him under her chin but said nothing when he didn’t laugh or wiggle in her arms trying to spin.

  “I love you, Jessie. Sleep tight.”

  “I love you, Mama.”

  I turned off the light and wondered how I’d gotten lucky enough for her not to freak out. Just as I climbed into my own bed, turned off the lamp, and laid my head on the pillow, I heard it.

  My eyes popped open, and I barely managed to stifle a sob.

  The damn thing refused to die.

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  Your Mom Does What?

  Faith Andrews

  To my wild and wonderful daughters, Julia and Leah, who keep me on my toes but make mommy life incredible. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  Your Mom Does What?

  Panting moans and slapping skin permeated the steamy truck. I palmed the clenched muscles of his firm ass, urging him to plunge into me to the hilt. Deep. Hard. Unapologetic.

  “Shit, Jessa. You’re not what I expected.” His gravelly admission brought a wicked smile to my parted lips.

  “Good,” I breathed, snaking my leg around his waist. Tighter. Higher. Closer.

  His lips traveled from my sweat-dampened neck back up to my mouth, where his tongue took no prisoners and mirrored the unwavering drives of his insanely satisfying cock.

  With one more mind-blowing, scream-inducing thrust, my body could take no more, unraveling, falling, blissfully crying out, “Oh. My. God. Yes! Yes! Yessss!”

  “Mom? Why are your cheeks so red? Why are you smiling like that? What the hell are you writing about?”

  I slapped the laptop shut and averted the wandering gaze of my ten-year-old daughter, Julie. “Language!” I scolded, pushing my Mac out of reach and taking a deep breath to clear my mind of my most current work in progress: My Step Brother’s Pick-up Truck.

  “Seriously, though. You said you were making dinner an hour ago. I’m starved!”

  And so am I, I thought. For alone time to write. For not-so-alone time to get in on some action like my based-on-me character, Jessa.

  Lately, adulting was not my forte. Especially since I was adulting solo because till death do us part became till I find myself someone younger, thinner, and blonder. Huffing as I slid off the stool at the kitchen island, I ignored all bitter thoughts about her father and reached out to finger the long waves of Julie’s golden hair. “What are you in the mood for? And don’t say sushi because you know your sister hates it.”

  Shooing my hand away, she rolled her eyes—probably for the nine hundredth time that day—and her shoulders slumped. She hates me. She totally hates me. Before she could turn away and bury her head in her phone to continue her Snapchat streak with her “squad,” I had an idea that would please even my picky children. “Breakfast for dinner?”

  You’d think I’d invented Instagram by the way she beamed. She loves me. She totally loves me. “Oh, yeah! Great idea, Mom. You have chocolate chips?”

  “And whipped cream!” I grabbed the pancake batter from the pantry, rummaging for the promised chocolate chips. “Go help your sister with the rest of her reading and dinner will be ready in a jiffy.”

  “A jiffy?” she snapped with a smirk. “Really, Mom? Who are you, Danny Tanner?”

  “What? What should I have said? What’s the proper lingo, oh sweet child o’ mine?” I couldn’t keep up, even though I liked to think I tried. And I wasn’t nearly as out of the loop as some of the other moms at school. But for some reason, nothing I said to Julie these days was up to par.

  “Just forget it,” she muttered, walking away with her face in her phone and her thumbs texting at lightning speed.

  I didn’t even bother to reprimand her for the over usage of the devil’s device because I knew—as most moms knew—that it would keep her occupied and allow me a peaceful twenty minutes to prepare our dinner. It would also allow me some quiet time to plot out the continuation of my first steamy sex scene in My Stepbrother’s Pick-up Truck.

  “Don’t forget to ask your sister if she needs help,” I called behind me as I heated a pan on the stove. My request would most likely fall on deaf ears, but it was worth a shot. Homework was a teacher’s way of punishing a parent for dealing with their unruly offspring all day. If I could get Julie to help Lila with her reading—my day would be made. And there would be more time for Jessa and her stepbrother to get down and dirty—after dinner, showers, and bedtime stories.

  The alarm buzzed, jolting me out of a dream where Julie was robotically texting her friends about what to wear to school while Lila dangled helplessly from the mouth of a hideous, toothy beast, begging for her sister’s mercy.

  “Holy shit!” I clutched my chest and wiped the sweat from my brow. I needed more sleep and fewer late night snacks. I’d been up until three o’clock chowing down on Girl Scout cookies with Jessa and Braxton. They managed to do it—while moving the story along purposefully and without unnecessary adverbs—a good three times before I crawled into the cold sheets of my lonely king-sized bed.

  For some reason, my traitorous brain chose that moment to travel back to the day we—my ex, David, and I—purchased this bed. It was a happy memory. I was newly pregnant with Julie and the full-sized bed with a bevel-mirrored headboard from when David first moved out of his parents’ house was no longer cutting it. We were on to bigger and better things. We broke it in
and christened it as soon as it was delivered and made love in that bed more times than I could count. Bliss. Faithful, marital bliss. Until, of course, he tainted the mattress and our marriage by fucking her in our bed.

  “I need to get a new mattress. STAT,” I announced to myself, dragging my tired body out of bed to start my day and wake the girls for school. But when I rounded the corner to the bathroom, I nearly fainted.

  “What?” Julie glared back at me, French-braiding her own hair.

  “You got up before me? You’re dressed? And your clothes actually . . . match?”

  With a roll of her eyes, she continued the intricate work of crisscrossing her mane. “Yeah. So. What’s the big deal?”

  What’s the big deal? I almost choked, but bit my tongue, finding a remnant of one of last night’s Thin Mints in the process. “Lila still asleep?” I asked, reaching for my toothbrush.

  “Nope! I’m all ready, too!” My tiny terror jumped into the doorway of the bathroom, beaming with pride.

  “Girls, what gives?” I mumbled through a mouthful of foaming toothpaste. Spitting into the sink, I wiped my mouth with a towel and scanned my daughters. “It’s not my birthday, it’s not Mother’s Day . . . I don’t get it.”

  “What’s to get, Mom? We’re growing up. We don’t need you for every little thing anymore.” It was wrong to want to throat punch your own child for making you feel unwanted, right? Sassy little shit. Two could play at this game.

  “Guess so, Julie. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed. You can handle packing lunches and making breakfast, right?” I yawned for effect and started to shuffle back to my bedroom, my fuzzy slippers scuffling along the hardwood floor.

  “But who will write us those smiley-face napkin notes? Or cut the crust off our sandwiches? Julie can’t use a knife yet. And you know I don’t like the crust!” Poor Lila—the one who still needed me and wasn’t afraid to show it—looked like a kid who’d lost her balloon. I bent down to her level and gave her a loving squeeze.

  Julie on the other hand, was watching my reaction with the curiosity of a peeping Tom. I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes narrowed as they spied my hands caressing Lila’s sweet, little face. Disgust? Jealousy? Gas? Who knew? She had this thing where she insisted Lila was my favorite child. I didn’t have a favorite. Swear on God. But Lila was easier to get along with and I only had a few precious years before she started hating me, too. Maybe I did coddle, hug up on, and steal more snuggle time with Lila. Who could blame me? She never objected. Julie usually cringed simply from hearing my voice speak her name.

  Regardless of my presumed favoritism, I didn’t want to send Julie off to school in a sour mood, or fuel her I-think-my-mom-hates-me fire. I winked at her and my heart about stopped beating when she actually winked back. Hold it together. Don’t engage. It’s sure to backfire. Smiling through my smugness I said, “Let me tame your sister’s Medusa-head and then I’ll be down to get everything ready. Thanks for helping Lila get dressed this morning. You both look like. . . like that vlogger girl you guys watch all the time. Those jeans are on fleek, Jules.”

  Annnndddd . . . she’s rolling her eyes again. I. Cannot. Win.

  Turning on her heels, she headed for the stairs. “Yeah, Mom. No problem. Should I feed Rosco?”

  “Sure! That would be dope!”

  “There is seriously something wrong with you.”

  And she was gone.

  “You try too hard,” Lila said, taking my face in her petite seven-year-old hands and kissing the tip of my nose.

  I had to laugh at my old soul of a daughter. I tapped her tush as I stood from my crouched position in front of her. Opening my palm to receive hers, I admitted, “And I’ll never stop. I love you girls to the moon and back.”

  “We know. We love you, too, Mom.”

  This kid got me. Reassurance in the form of a messy-haired, pint-sized mama’s girl. I had to be doing something right.

  “You can’t do anything right! I told you last week we needed a flash drive for technology class! Why don’t you remember anything I ever say to you? It’s like I’m invisible.”

  “Hey, Pot. I’m Kettle. Nice to meet you,” I wise-cracked as I spread a heap of peanut butter onto a slice of crustless bread.

  “What are you even talking about?” Julie mumbled. “Never mind, point is I need it today or I’ll get an Incomplete.”

  This was no time for preaching about responsibility because, now that she brought it up, I did remember her asking me for the drive last week. I mean, she should have reminded me, but this was partly my fault. I didn’t want her grades to suffer or the PTA wenches to have something to talk about.

  My hands ceased spreading the nutty cream as I considered the probability of having an available flash drive handy. When David moved out six months ago, lots of things went missing or wound up in places other than where they actually belonged. My gaze darted to the digital clock on the microwave. We were running late. There was no time for a Target run so I said a silent prayer to the flash drive gods and took a deep breath. “Let me finish up here. There’s one place I can look. In the meantime, please finish your cereal.”

  “But I’m not hungry anymore,” they both whined.

  “Finish the damn cereal! You need to eat! Sheesh, there’re starving kids in, in . . . Cambodia. They’d give anything for a sip of your Rice Crispy soaked milk!”

  “God, she’s so dramatic. Right, Jule?”

  “Mmm hmm. Just eat the damn cereal so we don’t have to hear her.”

  “Language!” I screamed over my shoulder as I headed down to the basement where I’d thrown a few boxes of David’s stuff. Please, God. Have mercy on my failing-mom soul.

  “Off you go. Don’t let the door hit your bratty asses on the—” The back door was flung open by one of the school drop-off ladies. Gulping down my brash farewell, I cooed, “Have a wonderful day, baby girlies. I love you so much. Be smart. Be brave. Have fun. Don’t forget to bring your flash drive to technology, Jules.”

  Shaking their heads as I blew them each a good-bye kiss, Julie and Lila got out of the car and walked up the stairs to their elementary school. I coldly saluted the mother who’d kindly volunteered her mornings to assist the children out of their cars and see that they made it into the building without issue. If it weren’t for the fact this particular woman was a PTA President kiss ass, I’d wish her a pleasant day and a genuine smile. But being as she was of the suck-up, stick-to-my-clique variety, I waved her off flippantly and went on my merry way.

  It was time for a coffee run. I had work to do. A deadline. A chapter or two more of Jessa and Braxton and I could send this baby off to the beta readers for their approval. I couldn’t wait to hear what they thought. This was my steamiest novel to date. I wasn’t too proud to admit that writing smut was not my forte, but after the online workshops I’d taken on Sex and Intimacy for the Romance Writer I was ready to blow the panties off my readers with this new, erotic side to J.L. Green.

  With my coffee and muffin in tow, I headed back home, walked into the quiet house, patted my pooch on his shaggy head, and sat down for some writing time. Since the divorce, I’d made a promise to myself to write on a full time basis. After Julie, David insisted I stay home to raise her. Then came Lila. I’d become dependent on my husband in many ways, until I started writing romance. There were times I missed my steady career in journalism and having adult conversations that didn’t involve cupcake duty or the latest sale at the grocery store, but I would never trade being home with my girls and being a part of their daily lives for anything. No matter how crazy they drove me, I loved them so much I’d give my left tit for either one of them. And considering that I breast fed both of them until they were two years old and chomping at my raw nipples with their razor sharp teeth—I’d say I’d totally given my left and right tits for my babies. But I digressed. The point was . . . when it came down to it, that’s why I lived off caffeine and four hours of sleep. Writing. I didn’t want to go b
ack to a nine to five out of the house. I had a career right in the comfort of my home. One that allowed me to follow a dream and feed my family—minus the dependence on David the cheater.

  I pushed all thoughts of my ex far from my mind as I cracked my knuckles and set out to complete this chapter. Jessa would discover she was pregnant even though she’d been on birth control since she was seventeen (because of bad periods) and missed a few pills (because she was too preoccupied falling for her stepbrother, Braxton) and worried how to break the news to him (because he would surely think she was trying to trap him).

  By the time I looked up from my laptop to see who was calling and interrupting my mojo, it was already after one o’clock. It could only be a telemarketer. No one else called the landline anymore. I ignored three mojo-stealing rings, blocked out the high-pitched but adorable answering machine greeting Julie and Lila had created on their own, and got back to the task at hand.

  His fingers traced a figure eight along my bare belly as his heated stare hypnotized me into submission. I arched my body into his touch, enjoying the way his rough, manly hands tickled my . . .

  “Hello, Mrs. Green. This is Principal Lopez calling from P.S. 28. There’s been a slight—”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! I jumped up to grab the phone, knocking over my mug and spilling the last mouthful of ice cold coffee onto my hand written notes. “Shit!”

  “Excuse me?”

  Of course I’d answer the phone just as I’m cursing to myself. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of . . . washing some dishes and I nearly dropped the phone into the suds. I apologize. This is Jessa Green. Is everything okay, Mr. Lopez?” Wait till the PTA gets wind of this.