Confessions of a Domestic Failure Page 12

  Saturday, February 9, 9 A.M.

  Don’t feel bad about needing domestic help. Not every woman can do it all, and until you can, the services of others bridge the gap.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  What’s so hard about finding a babysitter? When I was a kid the babysitter was the girl on the street old enough to stay home by herself but too young to date. And since when do babysitters make $12-plus per hour? When I was seventeen I made $2 and all the snacks I could eat.

  So far I’ve email interviewed:

  - a Russian au pair who was very interested in why Aubrey wasn’t sleeping through the night and suggested I incorporate more ground beef into her diet

  - a twenty-two-year-old very lovely young woman with a degree in early childhood education who suggested that I not let Aubrey have any screen time until she’s twelve and even then only twenty minutes a day and preferably Claymation

  - a seventy(?)-year-old grandmother who asked if I offered a retirement package

  After this, I’m considering hiring a dog to watch Aubrey, like in Peter Pan. I’m sure Nana wouldn’t charge more than $10 an hour and the occasional Milk Bone. Maybe she’d work for stomach rubs.

  Wish me luck.

  10 P.M.

  I found her. She floated in from a nanny website. Joy couldn’t have been happier when I told her I was getting a babysitter. She was proud of me for getting “the help I needed.” I made sure to tell her it’s only part-time.

  “Oh, it starts like that,” was her response.

  What does that mean? A month from now I’ll be parenting Aubrey via Skype? I don’t think so. And I can only afford three weeks’ worth of babysitting without having any money coming in.

  Chelsea, my twenty-eight-year-old angel sitter nanny starts tomorrow at 9 a.m. I interviewed her, will check her references tonight, and Aubrey seemed to take nicely to her. I can’t wait!

  Sunday, February 10, 9:20 A.M.

  People ask me all the time how I run a successful company with five children. The answer is: naps! My littles are all on a regular sleep schedule, and while they doze, I take conference calls, fulfill orders for the Motherhood Better line of maternity wear and sign contracts. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  I was sitting in the bushes at the park.

  Okay, let me explain.

  Chelsea arrived at 9 a.m. on the dot, and Aubrey was a bit fussy so I suggested she take her on a walk. Six seconds after they left I realized that while I interviewed this woman and checked her references, she could be anyone. What if she’s an international child smuggler? What if those references were just her accomplices?

  Bottom line: I realized I don’t really know her and had just sent my child off with a potential criminal. I don’t know if it’s all of the episodes of Crime Files and Gone Without a Trace, but I pictured Aubrey’s car seat in a van somewhere, off to her new family—or worse.

  I threw a black sweatshirt over my black sweats and put a black beanie on my head so that I could follow them without being noticed. In hindsight, dressing up like a bank robber in broad daylight may not have been the smartest move but nobody could see me. This bush was thick. And there were three different toddler shoes behind it. So this is where they lose them.

  Okay, back to Chelsea, aka Potential Baby Thief.

  She was sitting on the bench near the swings with Aubrey in the stroller next to her. No sign of a van anywhere. She was looking around suspiciously—wait, that might just have been boredom. Wasn’t she going to play with Aubrey or something? I know a baby can’t do much, but she could at least sing to her. I mean, she was on the clock.

  OMG.

  No. Freaking. Way.

  She was pulling out her phone. SHE WAS CHECKING HER PHONE. Instead of engaging my infant in age-appropriate play she was on her phone and...taking a park selfie? Was she serious? What was the caption? “Just neglecting my charge on this beautiful day at the park! Isn’t being a half-assed babysitter awesome! Look at my youthful skin and hair that isn’t falling out by the handful!”

  Her phone rang. She answered it. This was insane. Aubrey was sitting in her stroller rotting away and Chelsea was laughing on the phone? What if someone grabbed Aubrey while she was distracted? Sure, she had one hand on the stroller, but this wasn’t what she was getting paid to do. I was paying her to participate in the development of my daughter, not throw her social life in my face.

  I was just about to jump out from behind this bush...

  8 P.M.

  The craziest thing happened today.

  No, not the part where I was tailing my nanny and child through the park.

  No, not the part where I was staking them out.

  I’m talking about the part where I almost got arrested by a police officer for behaving suspiciously around small children.

  Yeah, THAT PART.

  Just as I was about to bust Chelsea for neglecting my child, a six-foot-tall officer yelled, “HEY, YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE IN THAT BUSH?” causing the whole park, Chelsea included, to turn their heads while I tried unsuccessfully to shush him. Hasn’t he ever been on a stakeout? First rule: inside voices.

  Apparently police officers don’t like to be shushed because he pulled me up by my arm. I know. Crazy. Aubrey immediately recognized me and started crying. I was horrified, but a little touched that she recognized Mommy in her all-black cat-burglar ensemble.

  Chelsea rushed over. She looked a bit confused, then angry when I explained to the officer that I was supervising my babysitter from afar. I thought it was completely inappropriate for the officer to agree with Chelsea that “spying” was a better word.

  Chelsea quit and called me a crazy b-word in front of Aubrey, which pretty much proves she’s not cut out for this job. The police officer laughed at me.

  I now have no babysitter and no dignity.

  I give up. I’d try another nanny, but I’m obviously not ready to let anyone else watch Aubrey yet. It doesn’t make any sense. All I could think about for the past few months was getting a break from her, but the second I did, the moment freedom peeked over the horizon, I sabotaged it. Is this what motherhood is going to be like? Spending all day dreaming about getting a break and then, when it comes, wanting nothing more than to be with Aubrey?

  I felt dread wash over me. I’d never be content again, would I? I love Aubrey more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone, but when I’m with her, I feel smothered. And when I’m not with her, I feel incomplete, like a piece of me is missing.

  How do other moms do it? Maybe it’ll be easier once she gets older.

  Maybe I need to stop resisting motherhood and just dive in headfirst and learn to “live in the beauty of the moment” like Emily says. I’m going to turn around and Aubrey will be eighteen, moving out, and I’ll have spent her entire childhood wishing I was somewhere else.

  The thought of Aubrey living somewhere else made my chest seize up. So this is motherhood. You pour your entire life into someone and then they just leave? It’s insane. I’m insane. I keep watching those crime dramas and eating my weight in peanut butter. Since becoming a mom, I simultaneously have no stomach for these shows, but feel as if I need to watch every episode to know exactly how terrible the world is that I brought my child into.

  Confession: Last night Aubrey barely slept and I cursed motherhood at 1 a.m. I cursed motherhood as in, “I hate this so much.”

  Now, watching these detectives break the news of a son’s death to his elderly father, I felt so guilty. I love you, Aubrey. I’ll try to protect you in every way that I can. I want you to have a happy, full life. I get tired sometimes, but I love you.

  What kind of mother curses motherhood?

  I’m awful.

 
; PS. I think the elderly father is the perp.

  Monday, February 11, 11 A.M.

  Your lover should be your #1 priority. Every Friday night, my husband and I go out on a date to keep our fires burning brightly. We also go on a no-kids vacation three times a year and, after five kids, we’re closer than ever!

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Today’s call was even better than the last one. When Emily popped up on the screen everyone gasped—she was wearing a sparkly gold-sequined gown and her hair was swept into a fancy updo. Her makeup was done with dramatic smoky eyes and deep red matte rouge on her lips. She looked straight off a Hollywood red carpet.

  “Hi, everyone! I’m coming to you live from my photo shoot with SHE magazine! They’ve chosen me as one of the twenty women in their Sexy Entrepreneur Women edition!” she said, her sparkly white teeth gleaming through the monitor.

  Looking down at the faded pink Gap sweatshirt that I was wearing, I felt a dull twinge of embarrassment. I’d fed Aubrey raspberry yogurt that morning and half of it was smashed into my chest. I did my best to wipe it off before the call, but it just looked like a giant bird had made me its poop target. I leaned in to conceal my dishrag of an outfit. That, coupled with my hair being days from its last washing, made me look especially homely next to dazzling Emily. I tried to focus on her words and not the fact that I looked like I’d been put away wet.

  “If you follow me on Instagram, you already know that my incredible husband, Thomas, is with me on the set, taking care of the children while I work. He and I are not only a team, but we’re best friends and—” she leaned into her webcam and lowered her voice “—passionate lovers.”

  I felt my face get hot. Passionate lovers? With five kids? David and I have one baby and our sex life is in the crapper.

  “It’s so important to keep the fire in your marriage burning with hot, sizzling embers of desire. Having children is no excuse for letting the spark that brought you together smoke and fizzle out.”

  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that, in my marriage, the “fire” is actually a pile of damp, charred sticks.

  Emily went on. “I want all of you to read through Chapter Four, entitled ‘Keeping Your Marriage Red Hot,’ and then put into action some of my tips. Does anyone have any specific goals for their marriage?”

  A shy-looking mom with short blond hair raised her hand.

  “Yes, Lillian?” asked Emily.

  Lillian look petrified to be the center of attention, “Hello everyone. I’m mom to three-year-old twin girls. I’ve been married to my husband for ten years. I’m just trying to figure out how to jump-start our sex life. He works so much and I’m exhausted after a full day staying home with the girls. They run me ragged.”

  Emily nodded sympathetically. “I totally get it. What’s your main objective?”

  “Ideally, we’d have more...you know...relations. Right now our encounters are dwindling. On a good week we only have sex three or four times.”

  “WHAT?” I screamed aloud unintentionally. Three or four times a week? David would be in heaven!

  Emily held up a hand. “Now remember, this is a safe space for Lillian. Lillian, I totally understand. My husband and I used to have sex multiple times a day and we’re down to just once per day. Read the chapter and let me know if it helps.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Compared to Emily and Lillian, I was living on a passion iceberg.

  Something caught Emily’s attention off camera and she made a thumbs-up sign before continuing. “Okay, they’re ready for me so I have to go, but this week is the Marriage Challenge. Find that spark you and your partner in childrearing used to have and let it burn!”

  All of those “burning” and “fire” metaphors were simultaneously making me think of yeast infections and BBQ. I was grossed out, hungry and completely overwhelmed at the task of turning my laundry-strewn bedroom into a lover’s den. Sure, I wanted my marriage to have fireworks, but after spending an entire day wiping down counters and shuffling around braless, it was easier said than done. Not to mention, I was always tired. Where was I supposed to find the energy to stoke the embers of this “love furnace”?

  I stood up and studied myself in the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door, trying desperately to find any signs of a vixen lurking beneath, but all I saw were dark circles, a dingy outfit and a mom who would give her left butt cheek for an afternoon nap.

  “I’m more of a spaghetti squash than a seductress,” I said to no one. Aubrey laughed and jumped up and down excitedly in her zoo animal-themed exersaucer, causing it to sing a catchy but annoying song about bears.

  I picked her up and grabbed my keys off the counter.

  I needed coffee.

  11 P.M.

  It is always so hard to fall asleep after Aubrey screams me awake. Somehow she always knows when I’ve just entered the most delicious REM sleep. Thanks, honey.

  I didn’t want to wake David with my tossing and turning, so I sat on the couch in the living room with my laptop and a cup of tea. While I’d rather be sleeping, it was nice to sit down for a minute knowing the phone wouldn’t ring, a meal didn’t have to be made and Aubrey (hopefully) wouldn’t need me for a few hours. I looked around the darkened room and sank deeper into the buttery leather.

  Yes, I thought. This is the life. Motherhood may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it sure makes a few moments of silence feel like the most luxurious of vacations.

  Then the thought hit me: the Marriage Challenge. Maybe I should check into the portal and see how the other moms are doing.

  I opened my computer and after my eyes adjusted to the glare, clicked my way into the website.

  What on earth...?

  We hadn’t had this challenge for twenty-four hours and some of the moms had already posted updates.

  Tonight after our son went to bed I surprised my husband with chocolate-dipped strawberries that I’d made that afternoon during naptime. He was absolutely delighted and, after the evening we just had, so am I.—Samantha Davidson, mom of 2-year-old Henry

  Girls! My hubby and I are about to hit the town and have a date night! I picked up a strappy red number and he made reservations at my favorite Italian restaurant. We’re definitely making this a weekly thing. Can’t wait!—Kimmie Reardon, mom of four

  Strappy red number? The closest thing to a strappy red number I’d worn since Aubrey was born was when I wore a pair of black tennis shoes with red laces.

  I thought these women were supposed to be underachievers, like me.

  “These moms are frauds!” I whispered angrily, shutting my laptop with more force than necessary.

  I needed to think of something and fast. Tapping out on the second challenge was not an option, especially when this program meant everything to my whole family.

  I opened my computer again and began to type.

  Hi ladies! I’m thrilled to see all of you doing so well. #SexyMamas. I had a busy day of yogurt-making, but I can’t wait to start this challenge tomorrow! Get ready, hubby!—Ashley Keller, mom of one

  So maybe I stretched the truth a little on the whole “yogurt-making” part, but it’s not all false. The yogurt cultures on my sweatshirt must have multiplied throughout the day due to my body heat, so technically I did make yogurt.

  I looked at the clock—11:25. Time for bed. Tomorrow was a new day and I was determined to make it a sexy one.

  Tuesday, February 12, 8 A.M.

  My husband and I met at a fundraiser supporting the preservation of antique teacups. It was early in my modeling career and I’d been escorted to the event by a rising designer watch model, but as soon as our eyes met, I knew I wanted him to be the father of my children. His face was so symmetrical. I wanted that for my babies.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Bet
ter

  I love my husband, but sometimes I want to scream in his face. These days all it takes is one of his insensitive remarks, and I start picturing my life as a single mother, the two of us passing Aubrey between us at mutually agreed upon locations like a highway truck stop. Naturally, I’d be thin by then, due to all of the stress.

  Let me tell you what happened.

  Aubrey has been waking up at 2 a.m. on the dot for the past few days. Teething, growth spurt, I don’t know. But last night I woke up my doting husband and asked him to go get her. Just this once. For the first time EVER in the eight months since OUR baby was born. Did I mention how this is OUR baby? The one we made together? Do you know what the man who promised to be there “for better or for worse” said to me?

  “I have to work in the morning.”

  I have to work in the morning.

  I know there is no salary for stay-at-home moms, but is this not a job of some kind? Isn’t what I do work? I know I’m not getting paid, but it’s not like I can just pop a squat and have a nap whenever I want.

  “I have to be up in the morning, too,” was my seething response in the dark.

  “Yeah, Ashley, but you can sleep when the baby sleeps,” he said through a yawn.

  Sleep when the baby sleeps? And am I supposed to wash dishes when the baby washes dishes, fold laundry when the baby folds laundry, and sweep the floor when the baby sweeps the floor?

  If it weren’t for the marriage passion fire challenge, or whatever it’s called, I would have flipped on the lights and told him exactly what I thought of his “sleep when the baby sleeps” idea.

  All I asked was that he get up with her, just this once, and he threw his important job in my face.

  I feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse into his subconscious. I’m the nonworking stay-at-home mom who should get up nights because he’s an oh-so-important contributing member of society because obviously I don’t need a good night’s rest every now and then. Motherhood can be run on fumes alone. Good to know.