Confessions of a Domestic Failure Read online

  Opening the door gingerly, I walked to her side of the car. I grabbed the diaper bag and undid her straps. With Aubrey on my hip and the diaper bag (with a bottle hidden in a tangled mess of pacifiers, toys and changes of clothes), we made our way toward the door.

  “I’m not going to pretend to do anything,” I decided. “I’m just going to show up to the meeting I was invited to.” Anyway, I thought, who says it’s for breastfeeders only?

  A sign on the door in swirly script read: Welcome to La Lait—A Safe Haven for Breastfeeding Mothers.

  Oh.

  11 A.M.

  Breast milk isn’t just wonderful for children. I pump and feed for premature shelter puppies once a month.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Lola, the outspoken redhead from the café, was waiting for me in the lobby of the co-op when I walked in.

  She wore her two-year-old son, Donovan, in one of those woven wraps that are way more expensive than they look. Maybe she’d be able to teach me how to wrap Aubrey. That is, if she can’t tell just by looking at me that my girls are as dry as a bone.

  “Ashley!” she squealed as she glided over to me. “You made it!”

  She reached out and grabbed me into her arms, squishing Donovan against my chest. She held my arms.

  “The ladies are so excited to meet you.”

  I forced myself to smile and hoped that I wasn’t visibly shaking. “I’m...so excited to meet them, too!” Inside, I could hear a voice saying, “What are you doing, Ashley? Run! Run now!”

  Lola tickled Ashley’s cheek. She giggled. “We’ve got to get you a wrap, little missy! Mommy’s arms are probably so tired!” She put a hand on my shoulder. “I have a spare in my car, if you want I can...”

  I waved my hands wildly. I couldn’t let her see that I have no idea how to use those contraptions. Not even seventeen YouTube videos and a ten-pound bag of flour as a baby stand-in could teach me.

  Lola grinned. “Ah, you’re one of those ‘baby in arms’ mommies. Old school. I love it.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and smiled as if I had any idea what she was talking about.

  Lola led me down the hall, past a Tai Chi class for elders and a pottery class for the recently divorced, to a door with a poster of a woman tandem nursing (that means two babies—I learned that last night) her twins. The caption above her head read, I make milk. What’s your superpower?

  “Apparently, it’s lying my way into mom groups,” I said under my breath.

  “What’s that?” asked Lola.

  “Oh, nothing! I just can’t wait to say hello,” I lied.

  Lola put one hand on the door handle. “Ready to meet your fans?”

  “Fans?” Before I could answer or sprint to my car, she opened the door and pushed me in front of her.

  I’d decided to keep a low profile at the meeting. I wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened; I’d just make a fresh start based on truth. That plan went out the window the minute Lola spoke.

  “Our hero was arrived!” Lola practically yelled and the fifteen-plus women sitting in a semicircle on a large red rug with blankets and pillows broke out into applause. The ones without babies on their breasts even stood up to give me a standing ovation.

  I died.

  “It’s so great to meet you! You are so brave. Can I interview you for my blog about normalizing breastfeeding?” said a bubbly brunette with thick glasses who turned out to be Nina, mom to six-month-old twins, Finch and Aiden.

  “I’m, um, thank you, maybe,” was my eloquent response.

  I sat down with Aubrey, who was practically buzzing at the excitement. Everyone was staring at me, beaming as if I were some kind of lactating Joan of Arc.

  Lola took her place among the moms and sat on her knees. “Hi, everyone! I want to formally introduce Ashley Keller, mom to Aubrey! She’s the amazing milk warrior I met at the café yesterday. She stood up to ignorance and we’re so happy to have her as part of our group.”

  Everyone clapped again and I did my best to conjure invisibility. This was a mistake, boomed in my head, over and over.

  “Ashley, would you like to say a few words?”

  I froze. Maybe now was the time for me to speak up and just tell everyone what had happened. Surely they’d understand, I thought. It’s such a simple misunderstanding. If I told them now, maybe we could all laugh about it and I could be the Le Lait version of a football waterboy and make sure everyone stays hydrated while they nurse.

  But as I looked around the room of smiling faces, hair as disheveled as mine, shirts with mysterious white, filmy, damp stains, eyes with dark bags under them, babies squirming around, I knew that these were my people. I know it sounds crazy, but besides the tiny fact that my diaper bag contains a bottle and powder that I’m pretty sure would leave them recoiling in disgust, we’re pretty much the same.

  “Thank you so much for having me today,” I heard come out of my mouth. “It’s time people accepted breastfeeding as normal and natural.”

  They clapped.

  What have I done?

  Thursday, February 21, 1 P.M.

  Today was everything I dreamed motherhood would be. The La Lait moms and I met up at the park for a lunch potluck. I brought my Lemon Poppyseed Cake (it turned out perfectly and everyone wanted the recipe).

  I was finally that mom. The one I always saw laughing and giggling with a group of mommy friends all seated together on a huge blanket surrounded by their babies. Somewhere between eating cubes of cheddar cheese and sipping on Nina’s homemade lavender lemonade (which was amazing, by the way), I realized that this is what was missing in my life. I looked down at Aubrey and felt like I was not just a mom; I felt like a whole person. I hadn’t felt like that in ages. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel completely and utterly alone.

  Nina, a seasoned mom of four, and I hit it off especially well. At the first La Lait meeting we spent some time chatting, while she bounced her six-month-old twins, Aiden and Finch, one in each arm.

  I almost said, “Wow, you have your hands full,” but remembered how much I hate when people say that to me. It’s basically code for “Your life looks unmanageable.” She dresses just like me: black stretch pants that she woke up in and long-sleeved shirts or hoodies. But our bonding wasn’t just over clothing preferences—I love how relaxed she is. Nothing seems to faze her. When Aiden and Finch both started projectile spitting in a stream of white milk, one over each shoulder like some sort of marble water fountain, she just looked at the three-foot-long splat mark on the linoleum and said, “I think that’s a new record, boys. Well done.” Then she set them down on a mat and wiped the whole thing up with a burp cloth. I would have wanted to sink into the floor. Nina just rolls with the punches. I’d love to be like that one day.

  The craziest part about her is that she has FOUR kids, including the twins. Besides Finch and Aiden, there’s Everdeen, four, and Lillyanne, six. I have no idea how she does it. She’s so cheerful and sarcastic. She told me that the trick to making it through the day is to “always have a glass of wine or piece of chocolate waiting for you at the end of the day...or with lunch, whatever.” I love her.

  Lola’s toddler, Donovan, is her first, but she’s hoping for another. When I told her that I’m probably one and done, she said “Just wait,” and winked. I got the feeling she’s been trying for a second for a while now but didn’t want to pry.

  I also chitchatted with a mom named Kristen. Her little girl is Alice, who’s just three months old. She reminds me of myself when Aubrey was a newborn: quiet, insecure, and trying so hard to find her groove. She was learning how to use a beautiful purple-and-black striped baby carrier on my first day with the group. Three moms were helping: one held the baby while the other two wrapped her up. As I watched her stand there, surrounded by
friendship and encouragement, I felt a little pang of sadness. Maybe I wouldn’t have had such a hard time getting used to this whole motherhood thing if I’d had a group like this.

  Sitting on the grass on overlapping blankets, babies, moms, and containers full of fragrant salads and sandwiches, I felt like I’d finally come home.

  Today was an absolute success.

  Except for one small incident.

  After lunch Aubrey started fussing and I knew she wanted a bottle right away.

  Lola knew, too. “Looks like someone wants lunch!”

  I froze. Letting Aubrey just starve was out of the question but was I supposed to whip out my plastic container of devil’s dust and say, “April fool”?

  Aubrey started fussing louder, and within moments was in a full-blown cry. I saw Nina glance at me questioningly and did the only thing I could think of.

  I sniffed her bum. “Phew! She’s ripe! I’m going to change her in the car before I feed her. Don’t want to ruin anyone’s appetite.” And then I dashed off, diaper bag in hand.

  As I sat in the back of my car, feeding Aubrey, I stared down at her face and tried not to cry. What am I doing? I felt like a fugitive. A fake. But I can’t lose my friends, I just can’t.

  I checked into the Motherhood Better Bootcamp portal and nearly everyone has found their way into a playgroup or book club and seems to be having a blast with their new clique. It’s too late for me to find a new playgroup and I really, really like these moms.

  I know the truth will have to come out eventually, but until then, is it wrong to just enjoy finally having people to talk to?

  9 P.M.

  Honesty is the foundation for all friendships and it’s no different for mommies. Always tell your village what’s on your heart. I’ve found that the soothing, warm water of a sea-salt hot tub makes for a comforting place to get vulnerable.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  I had the best day with Nina today. After the picnic lunch we took the kids to the zoo. Well, I took Aubrey. Nina brought—or should I say “corralled”—her four. I have no idea how she does it. She wore one twin (Finch, I think), used a double stroller for Aiden and Everdeen, and Lillyanne walked.

  She makes having one kid look like a walk in the park. It felt almost criminal complaining to her about Aubrey’s sleep problems, but she was sympathetic. It was so good to have someone to talk to. Someone who gets it. With David it’s like talking to a brick wall. I love him, but trying to get him to understand what motherhood is doing to my brain and body is an exercise in futility.

  Nina told me that she remembers what it was like to be a first-time mom and that everything I’m feeling is completely normal. When I’m around her I feel less like a screwup and more like a mom who is just trying to make it through the day, just like them.

  Aubrey is starting to really love our outings, too. I don’t know if it’s because I’m more relaxed, but she was giggling and pointing at all of the animals. She just looked happier. Lillyanne’s only six but she was a huge help. When I was changing Aubrey, she reached under the stroller and handed me wipes just when I needed them. Maybe there’s something to this whole have-more-than-one-kid thing.

  I know I need to come clean about not exactly being a breastfeeding mom sooner than later, but...we’re having so much fun together.

  * * *

  When we got back home, Aubrey was wiped out and slept for two hours. While she dozed, I chopped tomatoes and diced onions for Kristen’s homemade pasta sauce. Turns out she’s a chef. I told her about my kitchen fiascos and she assured me this one is foolproof. By the time Aubrey woke up it was done, and my house smelled like a basil wonderland. For the first time since I can remember, David went back for seconds at dinner. He’s even taking the leftovers to work for lunch.

  I wish I could have enjoyed the meal as much as he did. Sure, the sauce was great, but each bite just reminded me how much I need my new friends and that it’s all going to end, probably terribly, any day now.

  While Aubrey splashed around in the bath, I realized that for the first time in a long time, I actually felt good about myself. I didn’t feel like a failure. I felt like a normal mom and was actually enjoying the days, not just getting through them.

  As I watched Aubrey’s chubby hands slap the water, I made a decision. I had to fight for my friends. I was not going to let them slip away from me. Whatever it took, I was willing to do it. Maybe, just maybe, I could prove that, even though I’m not exactly who they thought I was, I was still a really good person and fun to be around.

  David put Aubrey to bed so I had a few minutes to write my wrap-up for the Mama Village Challenge.

  Hi everyone. This week was incredible. I’m proud to say that I made a group of great friends! I’m loving getting to know each of them personally and feel like they’re really starting to get to know me.

  Xo, Ashley

  Friday, February 22, 1:30 P.M.

  Aubrey just went down for her nap. I had the most incredible morning with the La Lait moms.

  I arrived at the meeting at 9:45 a.m., fifteen minutes before it officially began, and helped Lola set up. Aubrey was snug as a bug in a rug in a baby carrier Nina lent me the day before.

  “You’re really quiet today,” Lola said.

  “Oh, I’m just thinking,” I responded, setting up the coffee and cookies.

  “Thinking about what?” Lola had stopped working to breastfeed Donovan on the carpet. She patted the area on the carpet next to her. I took a seat.

  “I’m just really happy. I never thought I’d have friends like this again after having Aubrey,” I said, stroking the top of Aubrey’s head as she lay contentedly against me.

  Lola smiled warmly. “You’ve got a tribe now. No mom should be alone in raising children.” I looked at Donovan, who was nursing quietly. His face was hidden in the folds of Lola’s multicolored wrap, but his fist was wrapped around one of her long strands of crimson hair.

  As we sat there together, in the silence of the community center, I felt something I hadn’t felt for a long time. Peace. I realized that it wasn’t a lack of crafts, my terrible cooking skills, my crushing sleep deprivation, or even David being gone so much that had made motherhood so hard for me. It was not having this. Real friendship.

  Aubrey began fussing.

  Lola peered over at her. “Someone wants a snack,” she said, eyeing me from the side.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, fumbling. I pulled out my phone. “My husband just called me. I’ll be right back.”

  As I ran out of the room to feed Aubrey in my car, I knew I’d have to find a way to make this work.

  Sunday, February 24, 3 P.M.

  When I was a mom of only one, I designed my home after the Montague residence in Romeo and Juliet. Since then, my design taste has changed, but my commitment to making my home a place of beauty, organization and relaxation has not wavered. You’ll never see piles of laundry in my family room or toys strewn about, not because I have live-in help, but because I believe your home should be a place you are proud to call yours.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Only eighteen hours until the next bootcamp video chat. And I could barely contain my excitement, as it was going to tackle something I have tried, and failed, to get under control: my home.

  Before Aubrey was born, David and I lived in a tiny one-bedroom condo that could be cleaned from top to bottom in under an hour, probably because we didn’t own that much stuff. We had a set of dishes for four people. There were no baby spoons, baby forks, bottles, baby plates, baby bowls, or sippy cups with lids and weird plastic tubey parts I didn’t understand practically bursting out of the kitchen cupboards.

  Everything was minimalist, which I loved. There was no item that didn’t have a place. Magazines went on the ra
ck beside the couch. Shoes were all lined up in the entryway closet. My bags hung neatly in the bedroom wardrobe.

  Now? Aubrey’s five pairs of shoes are strewn in a messy pile in front of the door. My diaper bag is lying on its side like a drunken college student in the entryway with a trail of individual infant socks, an empty package of travel wipes and two canisters of sweet-potato-flavored puffs falling out of it. We traded our gorgeous small circular throw rug and slate coffee table for a huge, interlocking, brightly colored foam mat—the kind I said I would NEVER have in my home. All it took was imagining Aubrey hitting her head on a hard edge or the hard floor for all of our beautiful things to go on Craigslist.

  When we got married, I said everything in our home would be charcoal and cream. That was our official color scheme. I rubbed a bare foot along the hard plastic of the foam mat. Green, blue, yellow, and red. Primary colors. That’s my color scheme now.

  Plopping myself on the floor beside Aubrey, I had to admit that our flooring was pretty comfortable. It was like living inside of a children’s play center, except with less stomach flu. Aubrey noticed me beside her and took the opportunity to attack my head. In three seconds my hair was damp with drool.

  I pried her baby orangutan arms off my head and rolled her onto her tummy. She giggled gleefully as I blew raspberries into her back.

  Within a few seconds, Aubrey’s laughter dissolved into fussy yelps as she tried to flip onto her back.

  “You need tummy time, Aubrey! How are you going to learn to crawl?” I crooned while placing her back on her front.

  She screamed at me and waved her arms pathetically, like a beached baby sea lion, before pushing herself onto her back again.

  “How can a baby have such a strong will?” I asked her, hoping the self-satisfied glint in her eye was just a figment of my imagination and not a glimpse into her future stubbornness.

  Joy posts videos of crawling Ella almost every day now. I’m sure her friends must love the five-minute-long montages of my niece set to classical music.