Confessions of a Domestic Failure Page 13

  So far the only thing burning in our love furnace is any chance that he’ll be getting any of this spaghetti squash before Aubrey’s eighteenth birthday.

  8:45 P.M.

  My husband is my best friend. He understands exactly what I’m going through as a mom. Sometimes it’s like we’re twins!

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  I was prepared to be in a huff when David got back from work. The plan was to barely speak and close the fridge too hard until he asked me what was wrong five billion times. Five billion times I’d say “nothing” until he let his guard down. Only then would I unleash a heartfelt torrent of emotional diarrhea. That’s how we do things. But I never had the chance.

  He missed dinner entirely without even calling. This has never happened. Ever. Not in our entire marriage.

  I texted my standard What time today? at 4 p.m. when I was at my brink. Aubrey had been screaming every time her favorite episode of VeggieFriends ended, meaning I’d been watching it on a loop for forty-five minutes.

  His reply? Late.

  One word.

  I typed, Okay, what time?

  He replied, Not sure busy.

  He knows Estimated Times of Arrival are the only things that get me through afternoons. Could it be possible that he’s angry about last night? That would be rich. But coming home late isn’t his anger style at all. Usually he just gets quiet until I gently coax him with rapid-fire questioning.

  When he hadn’t come home by 7:30, I called him. Aubrey was fresh out of the bath and squirming in my arms as I balanced the phone between my shoulder and ear.

  “Where are you?”

  His voice was curt, “Work. Where else would I be?”

  Excuse me? I let it slide because Aubrey was thirty seconds away from wiggling out of my arms and onto the floor. What is it about being naked that makes babies so athletic?

  “What’s going on?”

  I heard a muffled side conversation. He wasn’t listening.

  “David? I said what’s going on?”

  He finished talking to whoever needed his attention more than I did. “Pepperoni and olives,” he said.

  “Are you ordering pizza?” My voice was shriller than I meant it to be. Aubrey glanced up at me, probably wondering if I was yelling at her.

  “Ashley, I really need to go. We’re swamped. I worked through lunch and, yes, we’re finally getting some dinner.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Barry, the partners and myself,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a three-year-old.

  I felt stupid for having asked. What, did I think he was having a romantic candlelight pizza with a woman in his office? Some hot twenty-one-year-old intern who has nothing else to do but burn the midnight oil with my husband? An intern who showers daily and whose healthy, fragrant hair isn’t in a greasy half bun? An intern who isn’t on day three of the same pajama pants? Of course I didn’t.

  “Oh, sure. I know. When are you getting home? I made lasagna but since you’re eating...” I hadn’t meant that to come off like a guilt trip but as soon as the words came out of my mouth I knew they sounded like one.

  Silence.

  “Probably around nine. We’re swamped with the DentaFresh proposal.”

  Duh. His firm has been trying to land the toothpaste conglomerate since they launched a year ago. This deal, if they get it, would be huge for them.

  “Of course! I totally understand! Work as late as you need to. I’ll be here. Aubrey just got out of the bath. Do you want to say hi?”

  He sighed into the phone. “Ashley, I’d love to but I really have to—”

  “Go—no problem, honey. Good luck. See you later.”

  “Good night.” Click.

  Good night? I guess they’d be later than I thought. An hour ago I thought he’d be apologizing to me, and now I felt horrible for wanting him to get up with Aubrey the night before such a big day at work. How was I supposed to know? He doesn’t tell me anything. I tell him everything. Twice. Three times if I’m feeling particularly chatty.

  I placed the phone in my pocket and stared at Aubrey. Her still-damp hair framed her cheery face, making her look like a drenched cherub. She giggled, her eyes squinting and cheeks forming small apples. Something in her mouth caught my eye. Using my finger to examine her gums I could see two bumpy white nubs smack dab in the middle of her bottom molars.

  First teeth! I squealed, which made her smile even bigger and then laugh. I couldn’t stop staring at them as if they were ruby-encrusted gold nuggets rather than a couple of barely-there baby chompers.

  Just as quickly as it came, the wave of excitement turned bittersweet. It was all happening so fast. My baby was growing up. First teeth, then braces, then I’ll turn around and she’ll be filling out college applications. I can almost see her driving away in a car packed to the brim with boxes, off to start her life...away from me. Only to come home on the odd weekend. Tears sprang into my eyes and I hugged her tightly. The moment was interrupted when a strange warmth flooded my midsection.

  “Aubrey, did you—” Pee. I pinched the soaked edge of my T-shirt with my free hand and looked down at Aubrey. She glanced back at me innocently, as if to say, “Are you sure that was me?”

  It’s only pee, I said to myself as I made my way to her bedroom to get her ready for bed. I read somewhere that it’s sterile, anyway.

  As I walked down the hallway, I couldn’t help but wish David were with me. He’d love to know that she’d gotten her first tooth. I could imagine him laughing as I told him that she’d marked her territory on me yet again. But I didn’t want to disturb him—again.

  “Sorry, business partners, I need to take this call. My eight-month-old just grew two teeth and pissed on my wife.” Yeah, that screams professionalism.

  Wednesday, February 13, 11 A.M.

  David didn’t make it back home until after 1 a.m. Right after he pecked me on the cheek and collapsed into bed, Aubrey started fussing.

  My hopes that the arrival of new teeth finally popping through would settle her sleep nonschedule were in vain. It took me half an hour to get her back down. I’ve spent the morning researching the “cry it out” method.

  Here’s what I’ve learned so far.

  Half of the internet thinks crying it out is hard to carry out but a perfectly healthy way to get babies on track to becoming fantastic sleepers for their entire lives, which in turn will lead to happy, successful adults who excel both at work and in their personal lives.

  The other half of the internet believes that if you let your baby cry it out you will permanently damage their spirit and their brain, and they’ll end up selling their bodies down by the train tracks for illicit drugs and dying of an overdose before they hit thirty.

  What. Am. I. Supposed. To. Do?

  I was desperate for sleep at this point. This morning I wore two different shoes to the café. I didn’t even realize it until a five-year-old loudly asked her mommy if it was “crazy feet day” while pointing at them. I replied, “Why, yes it is, darling,” in the sweetest voice I could muster, in case you’re wondering where I’m operating, maturity-wise.

  I bought a book called Love Sleep Repeat, which sounds like the insomniac’s guide to the Kama Sutra, but it is really the go-to manual for learning how to do the whole crying-it-out thing. The book was written by a medical professional, Dr. Faber, who, according to the internet again, is both the best and most evil man to ever walk the planet.

  Aubrey was hell-bent on eating the prologue, so I only managed to read the first few pages, but I get the idea. Instead of rocking your night screamer to sleep, you simply give them what are called “verbal assurances” until their dependence on you to soothe their night wakefulness vanishes. I hope Dr. Faber is right, because these double vanilla lattes are get
ting expensive.

  Speaking of beds, I have four more days to get Operation Love Furnace up and roaring hot, but between Aubrey keeping me a zombie mom and David working around the clock, what’s a mother to do?

  Then I remembered. Emily said that if we need extra help to just ask. I mean, what could an international TV host, businesswoman, mother of five and jet-setting author have going on that would prevent her having the time to help me with my love shack problems?

  It’s better than flunking out.

  Private Message

  Hi Emily! I know you’re busy with the book and your kids and your life (that, by the way, is the stuff dreams are made of, you inspire me every single day, thank you so much for having me in this incredible program, I’m learning tons), but I was wondering if you could give me some advice. I’m having a bit of a time lighting my passion fire. Any easy tricks to share? Thank you so much! Xo Ashley

  * * *

  A month ago if you’d told me I’d be asking Emily Walker, my momspiration, for relationship advice, I’d have said you were crazy. And yet here we are.

  I pressed Send. Looking over at Aubrey, I saw that she was doing her telltale squished-up, breath-holding poop face. How a baby on a mostly liquid diet can create such horrifyingly large emissions, I’ll never understand.

  Five minutes later I was done changing her and heard a little ping from my laptop, which was still open on the couch. One new message.

  Private Message

  Dearest Ashley,

  I feel so honored that you trusted me with such an intimate inquiry. Progress in the Motherhood Better Bootcamp depends on the openness and earnestness you’ve shown. When Thomas and I were new parents to our sweet twins, we had a little ritual. Every night after they drifted off to sleep, we would take a bath together. Essential oils and sustainable beeswax candles transformed our bathroom into a Sharing Lair. We’d pour our hearts out to each other, cradled in the warm waters of life, a womb keeping our love aglow.

  Never hesitate to reach out to me.

  Love, Emily

  I’m doomed.

  9 P.M.

  David is working late again. He let me know via a very personal text message: Late night. No dinner.

  He sent the text at 5 p.m., which meant I’d already started cooking. I wish he’d let me know earlier. Does he think I’m cooking for myself? I’d be perfectly happy eating a couple of frozen waffles slathered with chocolate-peanut butter spread. They pair beautifully with cheap red wine. I’m certainly not cooking for an eight-month-old who takes ten minutes to polish off a single cracker.

  I dutifully finished up the spaghetti and meatballs I’d been working on for the last hour and dined alone with Aubrey. I know technically that if Aubrey is there I’m not alone, but infants aren’t known for their dinner conversation.

  I may not have been alone, but I was lonely. Very lonely. He had to have been planning a little something for Valentine’s Day, I hoped. Though, at this point, I’d be thrilled to receive a box of drugstore chocolates.

  Maybe if I’d tended to our love furnace earlier, the nights David works late wouldn’t be so hard. The furnace would be hot enough to keep me warm or something. The metaphors were starting to irritate me.

  All I kept hearing from everyone—Joy, my mom and strangers at the grocery store—is how lucky I was to be a stay-at-home mom, but I wondered, if people knew how much time I spent by myself, whether they’d still say that.

  I missed David. I looked forward to him getting home, not just to throw Aubrey at him the second he walked through the door, but to have him here with me. I really, really missed him.

  An unexpected tear slid down my cheek just as Aubrey glanced up at me from her pile of shredded noodles. She cocked her head to the side like a puppy trying to understand, and then returned to pounding the pasta into her high chair tray with her bare hands. At least someone was having a blast.

  Thursday, February 14, 2 P.M.

  Date nights are a must for all couples with children. You don’t have to make them elaborate: dinner, a movie followed by drinks, can make for a very special night out. I like to buy a new outfit to really get myself excited. If you don’t have time to shop, many boutiques will send over a concierge with samples.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Happy Valentine’s Day! I couldn’t be happier than I was at this moment. David had just called me from work. Not only was he coming home early, but Gloria was babysitting tonight because he was taking me out to dinner!

  “I’ve been working late and I know you’re exhausted with Aubrey. Things haven’t been easy. I appreciate everything you do.” Those words came out of my husband’s mouth.

  I felt like the high school quarterback had just asked me to go to prom.

  He’d be home at 6, which left me four hours to tidy up (hide everything I didn’t want Gloria to see), shower, do my hair and makeup, and pick out something that fit.

  The timing couldn’t be better, I was all out of ideas for this week’s challenge and had two days to write my journal entry.

  Can I just say that I have the sweetest, most intuitive husband ever?

  5:55 P.M.

  The house was clean (enough), and Gloria should be here any second. But none of my prebaby dresses would zip up completely, so I’d ended up running out just before dinner with Aubrey and finding a simple yet elegant three-quarter-sleeve black wrap dress. It was on sale for $49, marked down from $220. Score. The saleslady was quick to tell me that the gathered fabric over the midsection was “very forgiving” and “great for postpartum mommies.”

  Ugh. Thanks, size zero college student. I’m sure she was just parroting sales copy, but maybe a little less emphasis on my stomach? I’m surprised she didn’t ask me how far along I was. Postpartum? I don’t think I qualify for that exemption anymore, although I have heard it takes a full year for internal organs to reposition themselves correctly and for bloating to subside 100 percent. See? My thirty-two-week post-pregnancy pooch isn’t my fault. My stomach doesn’t know where to be. And my fluids haven’t gone down. But you wouldn’t know about that would you, body-shaming saleswoman?

  Or so I thought.

  Before I walked out of the store, the associate ran over to me with another coworker in hand.

  “Doesn’t she look just like Melissa?” she said, gesturing at Aubrey.

  I smiled. “Is Melissa your sister?”

  She grinned. “No, she’s my daughter! She’s six months old.”

  I coughed to prevent myself from cursing at the stranger. How dare you look so good and have a baby younger than mine? is what I wanted to say.

  “Oh, how nice! You look fantastic...and rested.”

  “Thanks,” my new lifelong enemy said, running her hands down her sides. “I still have a few more pounds to go. And Melissa’s been sleeping through the night since she was two weeks old, bless her.”

  With that, I walked away for her own safety.

  I wasn’t letting anything get me down, though. Tonight was my night!

  6:30 P.M.

  David still wasn’t home and hadn’t returned any of my five texts or two voice mails.

  “Leave him be, darling. He’s hard at work. He’ll get here when he gets here,” Gloria said from the living room couch, bouncing Aubrey on her lap.

  I tried the office line. No answer.

  I couldn’t stop pacing. What if he’d gotten into a car accident? What if something happened? My calls were going straight to voice mail. What if he was robbed going to the ATM machine and the thief forced him to chuck his phone into an ocean or something? Aubrey’s never going to see he
r daddy again. I could feel the tears start to rise again.

  7 P.M.

  Did you know that 911 doesn’t consider anyone a missing person until they’ve been gone for twenty-four hours? Insanity.

  10 P.M.

  David walked through the door at 9:30, fifteen minutes after I had insisted Gloria go home.

  “He just got caught up with work. I’m sure of it. A mother can sense these things,” she said, lingering at the front door.

  “Normally he’d call. I’m worried.”

  “In my day, you know, during the war, we wouldn’t hear back from our men for months at a time,” she said, waving a finger at me.

  I didn’t say “These aren’t war times,” because all I really wanted was for her to leave so that I could try David’s phone again.

  “Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

  Fifteen minutes later the door opened and I felt my heart jump into my throat.

  I practically ran toward him.

  “Where were you? What happened? Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. My phone died.”

  It was like someone punched me in the chest. “Your phone died? Your phone died?” I couldn’t stop repeating it over and over.

  He walked over to the kitchen and put his briefcase on a chair, then took off his coat.

  “Yes,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “Didn’t you get my email?”

  “Email? I haven’t been on my computer all day. Why didn’t you call me from the office?”

  “I’ve been in back-to-back meetings all day. I left as soon as I could.”

  I stood in the kitchen, unable to process what he was saying.

  “I’d love to talk, but I’m exhausted,” he said, kissing me on the cheek before walking past me.

  I followed him into the bedroom and watched him undress and lie down. His eyes were just about to close when I blew a fuse.