Buch lesen: «Confessions Of A Domestic Failure»

Monday, January 21, 5 A.M.

Aubrey’s ear-piercing cry rattled over the baby monitor, yanking me out of a deep sleep.

My eyes fluttered open. I looked at my phone’s clock. No, no, no, no, no.

I’d dreamt I had a full staff: a nanny, butler, housekeeper and full-time masseuse. The laundry mountain of shame that lives permanently on my living room couch had vanished, and in its place, eighty-one bottles of delicious exercise wine. What’s exercise wine? It’s a wine that, when consumed, stimulates your muscles, resulting in rock-hard abs. While my nanny, who wasn’t hot enough to be a threat, played with Aubrey on the floor, I enjoyed sip after mouthwatering sip and watched my kangaroo-pouch stomach tighten into a washboard.

Another scream over the monitor.

I don’t know whose grandmother I dropkicked into a well in a previous life to have an eight-month-old who regularly wakes up before the sun, but I wanted to apologize. I glanced at my darling husband, David, who was sleeping soundly. I watched him breathe deeply and suppressed the urge to smother him with a pillow. How was it that he could hear me adjusting the thermostat from two rooms away but could sleep through the ear-stabbing howls of our eight-month-old every morning?

“I know you’re faking,” I whispered, trying to call his bluff. No movement.

I threw my legs over the side of the bed and bent down to find my trusty black stretch pants. They’re the same ones I’d been wearing for the past two, three, maybe six days. They didn’t smell bad, they smelled...rich with character.

After making my way to the bathroom, I splashed a bit of water on my face, hoping the H20 would magically fade the dark circles around my eyes. I glanced into the mirror and was surprised to see Medusa staring back at me, but instead of snakes coming out of my head, there was just a ratty ponytail. I ran my fingers through the mess and cringed. If my hair got any greasier, I’d be able to stand outside on a hot day and cook breakfast on it.

I was exhausted. My back hurt. My head hurt. My eyelashes hurt.

I tried to remember when my last good night’s sleep was. It had to be when I was six months pregnant. That’s when the heartburn kicked in. Did I say heartburn? I meant boiling hot lava. Flaming acid rain. Whatever it was, it meant I had to sleep sitting up in bed while Aubrey Riverdanced on my bladder. If there was any justice on Earth, women would take the first twenty-week shift of pregnancy and men would take over for the last four-and-a-half months. But based on how a common head cold transformed my husband from a thirty-five-year-old man to a ninety-six-year-old granny with malaria, I wasn’t sure he’d make it through one day with child.

Another angry scream shot through the baby monitor.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I whispered, dabbing at my face with a towel. I stared at my tired reflection in the mirror.

When Aubrey was finally born, every ounce of throat-searing bile was (mostly) forgotten as I looked into her adorable little face covered in that weird, white marsh scum* infants are born with. I wish someone had warned me about the vernix situation. Maybe then I wouldn’t have screamed, “IS SHE A LEPER?” in front of two nurses, the doctor and a team of horrified interns. David teased me for weeks. Every time I’d hand her to him, he’d make a cross with his fingers and yell, “Unclean!”

She really was a beautiful baby. Or I thought she was. Everyone thinks their newborn is a looker when the truth is, 99.99 percent of them look like Groucho Marx.

* When you think about it, my uterus was kind of like a marsh: it was wet, dark, warm. All that was missing were the alligators.

* * *

I looked down and noticed that the pants I had slipped on in the dark featured a large hole in the crotch. A custom air vent, I rationalized.

It was almost impossible to believe that two years ago my mornings started with a ridiculously long shower as I got ready for work at Weber & Associates. I was a rising superstar in the marketing world. Back then, my mornings revolved around my intricately detailed makeup routine, dressing in trendy but professional skirt suits, and the vanilla latte and egg, cheese and ham croissant that I’d devour on my commute. Now breakfast consisted of whatever finger-food scraps Aubrey doesn’t eat and peanut butter on a spoon while standing up with my face in the pantry. This wasn’t how I pictured motherhood at all.

In my motherhood fantasy, I’d wake up at 7 a.m. and float into my still-sleeping baby’s designer periwinkle-and-slate nursery (with a plum accent wall—like in Real Simple’s Fall issue). Everything in the spotless, clutter-free baby sanctuary would be made by obscure Etsy artists living in the woods in Oregon, Italian designers or handmade by yours truly. You’d be able to feel the oak knots in the crib. They’d tell a story.

While my baby slept, I’d sit in her custom-made organic bamboo-and-pine rocking chair and write her a poem every day. She’d treasure these poems for her entire life and eventually turn them into songs. She’d win armfuls of Grammy Awards while I, an old but hot grandma, cheered her on from the star-studded audience. I can already see the award show camera go from her, in a beautiful gown on stage giving her acceptance speech, to me, tearfully clapping for my baby girl. She’d blow me a kiss, I’d catch it, and people around the world would be inspired by our mother-daughter connection. “How did she raise such an amazing young woman?” they’d ask themselves.

I’d wear stylish but casual clothing: white sundresses and practical but fabulous strappy Bohemian wedges. I’d save the skinny jeans for playdates.

Speaking of playdates, I’d be invited to so many of them that I’d be turning them down. “Sarah, I’d love to pop by, but I’m making organic applesauce and canning tomatoes from my garden today, sorry!”

I’d have one of those cute planners to keep all of my events straight—a pink leather-bound agenda with a matching pen that I’d keep in my fantastic diaper bag. The fantastic diaper bag that I’d never forget at home.

Aubrey would wear nothing but 100 percent organic cotton matching separates, lots of delicate vintage lace and those $60-a-pop suede booties in every color. I’d visit the farmers’ market daily and sniff loads of fresh fruit, vegetables and local honey before selecting the items that would become the rustic, delicious dinners that I would Instagram to the delight of my hundreds of thousands of followers.

My meals would be beautiful and epic. People on Facebook would stare in admiration at the photos of my homemade Bolognese with handmade pasta. I’d definitely have one of those countertop pasta-drying things that look like they’re for hanging miniature laundry.

Obviously, I’d cook while wearing seasonally themed aprons with Aubrey warm and cozy in the baby wrap I got at my shower a year ago and that I have yet to learn how to put on. David would brag to all his friends about how naturally I took to motherhood and how he always knew I’d be a great mom.

My reality? Aubrey screams me awake at 5 a.m. every morning and I’m about six months behind on the laundry that’s taking over my living room like some kind of poisonous mold.

Forget about all of the cute outfits I thought I’d be putting my firstborn in. Every day my daughter wears one of four pairs of footie pajamas. She can’t even walk and the feet are getting worn out from use. Two of them are stained: one from a diaper blowout (since when does infant poop stain?) and another from red wine (don’t judge me). I wear the same three pairs of black yoga pants and a rotating army of stretched-out tank tops that can barely contain my jiggly muffin top.

Two weeks ago in the grocery store, an elderly woman looked us up and down, shook her head and handed me $20. I wanted to yell, “We’re not homeless. I’m just too tired to care!” but she’d already turned down the baked goods aisle.

My thoughts were interrupted by another howl over the baby monitor as I hurried to pee. I finished up and washed my hands more slowly than I should have, savoring the last few moments of my day alone.

Before having Aubrey, I thought I’d be an amazing mom. I thought I’d be Emily Walker. Yes, THAT Emily Walker, the mom everyone wants to be; the famous mom blogger turned media darling who went from sharing her perfect family (including five children) and their perfect life with an audience of millions of mediocre moms to getting her own morning television show where she tells moms everywhere how to knit, craft and bake their way to a better life, all while getting to yoga class on time.

Not that I go to a yoga class. And let’s not even talk about my body. I refuse to let David see me naked. The few—and I mean few—times we’ve found ourselves in a compromising position since Aubrey was born, I insisted that the lights remained off and as much of me stayed under the covers as possible. Yeah, I’m a regular vixen.

But Emily Walker has five kids and looks incredible naked. I know because on her blog are gorgeous photos from her vacation in the Bahamas (sponsored by a sunscreen company, of course). In one of them, she’s lying on a huge yacht in a bikini that looks like a piece of dental floss. She doesn’t have a single stretchmark on her toned, tight abdomen. Not one. I only have one kid and not only can I tuck my stomach into my pants, but it also looks like a bear clawed its way down my doughy center. But who’s keeping score? Okay, I am.

Motherhood has done a number on my body. My hair has somehow become an oil slick and bone-dry at the same time. My skin is always broken out from the hormonal roller coaster I can’t seem to get off of. Last week I cried during a commercial for yeast infection cream. David looked at me like I was insane. In my defense, the mother and daughter bonding over their shared vaginal fungus really touched me.

I thought being a stay-at-home mom would be easier. But the house is a disaster. David doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the judge-y way he looks around when he gets home that he’s noticed we currently live in an upscale rattlesnake’s nest.

I’m not exactly the best home chef, either. My idea of cooking is flipping through takeout menus with a spoonful of Nutella in my mouth or throwing something together at the last minute as if I’m on one of those “race against time” cooking shows. The result is usually spaghetti or quesadillas—you know, the kind of food fourth graders eat for lunch. Basically, I’m failing.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets. I love Aubrey. I just didn’t think I’d get pregnant so fast after David and I got married. I know how babies are made, but getting knocked up on the first try was a surprise. I was equally surprised to get laid off while on maternity leave. I guess that’s what happens when a company has to tighten its belt after the CEO is caught embezzling money. I never even got to ride on his yacht. Pity. So, here I am, an accidental stay-at-home mom.

In two short years I went from being a professional thirty-two-year-old semifashionable woman who ordered cranberry martinis during happy hour and spent Friday nights hopping from fusion restaurants to invite-only “what’s the password” bars, to a thirty-four-year-old lumpy, bone-tired, hormonal mom who lives in semiclean activewear and spends Friday nights passing out at 7:48 p.m.—three minutes after I get Aubrey to sleep.

Just when I was really starting to feel sorry for myself, another impatient yelp boomed through the baby monitor. I peeked out of the bathroom into the bedroom where David had turned onto his side.

“Still pretending to be asleep, huh?” I spoke directly at him. Still nothing.

I shook my head but let him off the hook. In an hour he’d be off to work, fighting to make a name for the advertising agency he’d left his job to start four months before I decided not to find another job. I knew he was under a lot of pressure to make his company successful. If his sales skills were half as good as his early-morning acting skills, he’d have no problem at all. But in all seriousness, I was proud of him for fighting for his dream. I just wished he’d get up with the baby once in a while.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I said, as I walked toward my daughter’s bedroom. She was standing up, full of more energy than anyone should have before dawn. Her smile was contagious and I found myself cracking a slight one as I scooped her into my arms. If there was anything more delicious than a baby in footed pajamas I didn’t know what it was. I mean, ham and cheese croissants came close, but she was still cuter. Before having Aubrey I thought it was horrifying when people talked about wanting to eat up their babies, but now I totally got it.

She babbled enthusiastically as I nuzzled her cheek. My heart dissolved into warm fuzzies as she pawed at my shirt. I looked down at her sweet face and tried to memorize every curve and dimple. I may not be the world’s best mom, but gosh, how I love this little girl.

“Just so you know, when you’re ready to talk, it’s perfectly fine to call for Daddy in the morning,” I said, as we made our way downstairs and into the kitchen. I flipped the switch and blinked as the light burned my eyes. It was too early.

Coffee. Must ingest caffeine. Before becoming a mom, I loved coffee, but now I needed it to function. My body went on autopilot as I fumbled with the coffeemaker with one hand. Aubrey cooed to herself on my hip. I pressed the Start button and the machine began to gurgle.

In a few hours, my ex-coworkers would be in the main conference room brainstorming PR campaigns for a new sugar-free energy drink or sparkly nail polish over a catered breakfast, while I was still sitting in my living room trying to stay awake.

I grabbed my coffee and walked with Aubrey, still happily on my hip, into the living room. I plopped her down on the enormous play mat that dominated the room and she quickly got to work finding her favorite toys. I flipped on the television and found a comfortable spot on the couch, cradling my coffee mug in my hands. Sensing my comfort, Aubrey began to squawk angrily. I picked her up and sat her on my lap for snuggles. She immediately dove for the hot coffee in my hand. I managed to take a few urgent sips before placing it on the end table and out of her sight. I looked longingly at my warm cup of daily motivation. I’d finish it when Aubrey napped. Of course, it’d be stone-cold by then, but that’s what microwaves are for.

I heard a familiar voice on the television.

It was Emily Walker, mom blogger turned media superstar, on her highly acclaimed morning show, aptly titled The Emily Walker Show, doing a cooking segment with her latest celebrity guest.

Emily, impeccably dressed in a canary yellow ensemble, stood next to the redheaded bombshell and looked into the camera.

“Your kids are absolutely going to LOVE these butternut squash date scones!” Emily said, waving her hands enthusiastically.

“Which kids would love those? Human ones?” I said to Aubrey, as if she could understand anything I said. She blinked.

Emily held up a book. “Don’t forget to pick up Alicia Winter’s new wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, fat-free dessert cookbook! It’s in stores now!”

“I’ll get right on that,” I said sarcastically to Aubrey, who was now happily chewing on a runaway strand of my hair. I really needed to get some friends. Surely they’d appreciate my witty commentary more than an eight-month-old could.

Truth be told, I’d love to be the kind of mom who showed up to playdates with a tray of delicious, homemade treats: baby carrots cut up to look like snakes, baskets of muffins made with beet puree, and hand-churned yogurt in mini glass mason jars topped with fruit I preserved myself. The other moms would watch in astonishment as their children devoured my domestic creations. But so far I’ve been invited to exactly zero playdates. Even if I were asked, I’d probably bring a few bags of drive-through fries. Fries are a vegetable, right? They’re also vegan.

I stole another sip of my coffee and turned up the volume.

Emily was now sitting on her trademark pink EW-logoed interviewer couch, having what she called a Mama Heart to Mama Heart. It’s how she ended every episode of her show—with a few words of her own brand of wisdom.

“My mission for The Emily Walker Show has always been to inspire mothers.” The camera zoomed in tight. “I see you there, mama. You’re tired, frumpy, exhausted...”

I looked down at my stained purple sweatshirt and holey pants and glanced around the room. Were there cameras in here?

Emily narrowed her eyes dramatically. “Every day I get hundreds of emails and letters asking me how I raise my five beautiful children while running my empire, and I’m thrilled to announce that my book, Motherhood Better, comes out today. In it you will find the keys to my success and your own. Are you ready to be the mom you’ve always known you can be? Are you ready to truly enjoy motherhood?”

I found myself staring at the camera, hypnotized. She was saying all of the right things. It’s true. I had always wondered how Emily’s social media accounts were constantly full of gorgeous meals and perfectly groomed children, and boasted of her latest ventures, when the only thing I’d accomplished last week was moving my laundry pile from the bedroom floor to the recliner. I’d also figured out that a spoon half full of Nutella and half full of peanut butter dipped in powdered sugar tastes like a Reese’s cup.

“My new book, Motherhood Better, will take you from frumpy to fabulous, struggling to spectacular. It’s time to become the mother you’ve always known you could be.”

This was exactly what I needed. With that realization, I practically flew off the couch, startling Aubrey, and grabbed my computer from the dining room table. Within minutes I’d purchased the book from BookSpot, a local store downtown and opted for same day pickup. This was an emergency, after all.

I was almost shaking with excitement. This was my moment. This is exactly what I’d been waiting for. That, and I was running out of places to hide laundry.

I opened my email and was excited to see a confirmation message waiting for me.

You purchased Motherhood Better by Emily Walker.

I looked at my phone. Only four hours until the store opened. Today I will become a mother, better. A better mother? Anyway—I’ll get the book today is what I’m saying.

2 P.M.

I’d finally gotten Aubrey down for a nap and was lounging on my bed, trying not to let the two sinks full of dishes distract me from my well-deserved break. The day had been one for the record books. Everything that could have gone wrong had, and I learned some important lessons.

Lesson #1: If you forget the diaper bag at home and your baby needs changing at a bookstore, remember that you CANNOT, in fact, craft a diaper out of an old ziplock freezer bag that you found in the trunk of your car and a pair of emergency period panties from your glove compartment.

Lesson #2: When you arrive at home and see that your mother-in-law, Gloria, has popped in for a surprise visit with one of her classic six-cheese casseroles because she thinks (knows) you can’t cook and doesn’t want her David “starving to death,” don’t forget about your ziplock bag/period-panty diaper monstrosity and hand the baby to her.

Lesson #3: When your mother-in-law gasps and recoils in horror upon changing the baby and seeing your ziplock bag/period-panty diaper debacle (complete with a stained merlot mosaic of periods past), think of something clever and blasé to say rather than just standing there with your mouth open. Don’t manically yell “Yolo!” She’ll just ask what “yolo” means and you’ll sound like an idiot explaining it. Also, don’t try to cover your tracks and say that yolo is an ancient Tibetan prayer, because even though your mother-in-law doesn’t know how to call before she visits, she does know how to Google.

Lesson #4: Be more prepared. Keep the diaper bag by the door. You should be better at this by now.

What kind of people “just pop by” anyway? Perhaps my dear husband casually let his mom in on the not-so-secret secret that I’m not taking to motherhood as naturally as I thought I would. In my defense, Aubrey is only eight months old. Eight months into any job isn’t really enough time to become an expert.*

* Not that I’m calling motherhood a job. It’s a blessing. Really, it is. Such a blessing. I’m blessed. Truly. #soblessed

Despite my sweet mother-in-law going on and on about how motherhood is an instinct, I can’t be the only newish mom having a bit of a time finding her groove.

To be fair, I had very little preparation for this whole motherhood thing. Before Aubrey, the only newborns I’d ever held were my sister Joy’s kids, the last of whom, my niece, was born just a month before I joined #TeamMom. That’s a day I’ll never forget, and not just because my niece was so adorable. Joy had just dropped the enormous bomb that she was giving her baby girl the name we’d both loved, I mean LOVED, as in we’d named every doll and teddy bear Ella since we were four and seven. When we found out that we were both pregnant, we even met at a coffee shop and decided that neither of us would take the name. So when the nurse said, “Isn’t Ella darling?” I almost hit the ground.

“Don’t be childish, Ashley,” was Joy’s response as she lay looking like a freaking goddess in her hospital bed. She was probably the first woman there to give birth in a $200 custom nursing gown. It was gorgeous. Pink apple print with cute little yellow blossoms.

It wasn’t just the gown. Joy always looked fantastic. Her hair was even prettily tousled like she’d been boating all day rather than pushing six pounds and seven ounces of person out of her vagina.

When I told her I wasn’t being childish and brought up the conversation in the café, Mom chimed in to defend her like she always does.

“Stop it, Ashley. Your sister just had a baby, for goodness sake. And she really does look like an Ella.”

I had Aubrey one month later.

I love Ella and, of course, her brother, my three-year-old nephew, George, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little every time I hear her name.

“Aubrey is a gorgeous name,” Joy gushed when she came to visit me in the birthing center. Joy and Mom were dead against my giving birth to my first outside of a hospital. In our typical Easton style, they never actually told me this. They just sent me every birthing center/natural-birth-gone-wrong horror story ever published while I was pregnant.

So maybe I did feel a little smug when Aubrey was born all warm and perfect in my hippie den aka birthing center. That is, until Joy spoke.

“You really are brave, Ashley. I never could have rolled the dice with my baby.”

Once again, Mom backed her up. “Yes, Ashley, you’re very lucky.”

Lucky? They acted like I’d run blindfolded across six lanes of traffic while balancing my baby on my head rather than just given birth in the #1 birthing center in the nation, directly across the street from a top-rated, fully equipped hospital.

Before Aubrey was born I’d decided that I’d be one of those all-natural moms who made their own peanut butter, wore their baby 24/7 in one of those slings and breast-fed well into toddlerhood. Giving birth to Aubrey in a birthing center was just what I needed to catapult me into my new, organic lifestyle.

But my earth-mother adrenaline rush lasted until about four days after Aubrey was born, when my milk didn’t come in. After Aubrey lost two pounds, even my “fight the man” midwife had to admit that something was very wrong.

“You might just be one of those women,” she said to me in a hushed whisper, as if we were undercover spies trading government secrets. “One of those women who don’t make milk.”

“BUT YOU SAID THEY WERE ONE IN FIVE MILLION!” I cried, pushing my raw nipple into Aubrey’s screaming mouth. “I HAD A NATURAL BIRTH!”

Two lactation consultants, bloodwork, a dozen delicious but ineffective lactation cookies, two boxes of lactation tea and a rented breast pump later, I gave in and bought my first tin of failure powder. That’s what a mom from my online breastfeeding forum calls formula. Failure powder. For failures like me. Did I mention that Emily Walker made so much breast milk for her last baby, Sage, that she donated gallons to her local milk bank?

Joy was as helpful as she always is. “I’d totally pump for Aubrey, but I’m making just enough for Ella as it is. Sorry.” I could tell she really was sorry, but it didn’t help with the feeling of crushing disappointment. The studies that go around Facebook every fifteen minutes about how babies who aren’t breast-fed grow up with dragon scales covering their entire bodies didn’t help.

Eight months later I still hate myself just a little every time I scoop that white powder into the bottle. Formula. I’m a formula mom. This wasn’t how I saw it all happening. It’s not that I think formula is evil; I just always pictured myself breastfeeding under a willow at the park, its leaves gently swaying in the warm breeze, onlookers stealing admiring glances at me. Ask me how many admiring glances I get whipping out a nine-ounce bottle at Starbucks. ZERO. One mom even asked—with tears in her eyes, no less—if she could breastfeed my baby for me. As if Aubrey is some malnourished third-world baby on television with flies buzzing around her emaciated body. I may have lied and said that she’s allergic to human milk.

Oh, and we stopped using the million-dollar-a-can organic formula blend when Aubrey was three months old. Now she’s on the cheap brand stuff. She’s the only eight-month-old I know with zero teeth—probably from all of the trace minerals she’s missing from my malfunctioning mammary glands. Formula. When she drops out of community college, we’ll all know why.

Yesterday, Emily Walker posted a photo of herself breastfeeding her eighteen-month-old in front of the Eiffel Tower. She’s doing her show live from Paris for her Motherhood Better book tour, and I’m sitting in funky pajamas trying to remember the last time I shaved my armpits.

Back to the lessons I learned today. So in all of the “confusion” (shorthand for poopy-diaper-ziplock-bag-period-panty-replacement among us moms) I left my copy of Motherhood Better in the bookstore bathroom. I called and they said my copy had been thrown away (an employee complained that its proximity to the baby changing area was unhygienic) but they’re giving me another one free of charge. David is picking it up on his way home from work. I asked him to pick up dinner, too. I’m exhausted from a day thinking about all the ways I’m screwing up his child, and the fridge is practically empty other than chardonnay, string cheese and almost-rotten produce.