Confessions of a Domestic Failure Read online

  “Has Aubrey started crawling yet?” she asked me the last time we spoke.

  “Not yet, but she sits up and is rocking. She will any day now.” I tried to sound confident.

  “Don’t worry. Some kids are just late bloomers. Maybe if you cleaned up your living room a little you’d have more space for her to move around,” was my sister’s response.

  Double whammy. Note to self: Mail Joy an envelope full of glitter.

  She’s not all wrong, though. Currently, there are four full baskets of clean(ish) laundry, an exersaucer, a bouncy chair, four throw pillows and a ton of other miscellaneous goods on my living room floor.

  I checked my phone’s clock.

  Only 17.5 more hours until I learn how to finally be someone who is proud of her home.

  Monday, February 25, 10:30 A.M.

  My interior designer and I worked together to give each room in my home a personality of its own. You spend 85 percent of your life within the walls of your house; you should love every square inch of it.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  The Motherhood Better Bootcamp call had been at 9 a.m., a full hour earlier than normal. Emily wanted us to catch her at home before she left for the studio to film her show.

  “Good morning, mommies!” she chirped from the screen. Even in pink sweats and a hat with her pink EW logo on it, she looked fabulous. “I hope you guys had fun with your mama village last week. Now are you ready to tackle the Home Challenge?”

  The other moms smiled politely. I wondered if any of them were doubting that they could whip their cluttered, overridden-with-toys houses into shape in just one week.

  Emily adjusted her hat and continued, “Your home isn’t just a structure, it’s your family’s safe and sacred space. It’s your temple. This week you’re going to learn how to treat it as such.”

  Temple? I looked around my living room where I was sitting barefoot and cross-legged because the laundry baskets left little space to stretch out.

  “I’ve left some instructional guides for you in the portal, but right now, I want to show you around my house! Ready for a tour?”

  Emily’s camera rose as she stood. She shifted her computer to face out, and a sparkling white room filled the screen. Luxurious eggshell suede couches, a cream rug, glittering chandelier lamps, blue and gold porcelain accent vases...did children really live in this house?

  “This is the formal family room. It’s where I receive guests. My children love to play in here.”

  Play what? Sit Still and Try Not to Break Anything?

  “Let’s move on to the kitchen!”

  The camera panned down a long hallway with smooth oak hardwood floors and family photos hanging on the walls, and then opened into a rustic, high-ceilinged kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the beams over the chef’s kitchen. Stainless steel appliances with not a trace of fingerprints twinkled as they caught the sunlight.

  “The kitchen is where my family gathers several times a day not just to feed their bodies, but their souls.”

  Over the next half hour, we saw every immaculate room in Emily’s house, including her children’s themed bedrooms (Unicorn Wonderland, Horses Galore, Nighttime Whimsy, Forest Magic and Beyond Space and Time), her bedroom—it looked straight out of Arabian Nights—the den, her many bathrooms, her meditation room, her dining room, her craft room, her office, her garage and the backyard.

  At the end of the tour, there was just jealous silence.

  “I hope you got inspired to create a truly beautiful living space of your own. As always, if you need any direction, consult your copy of Motherhood Better, chitchat in the portal, or send me a message. Love you guys!”

  Consult the portal? Are there a few hundred thousand dollars in there for me to make my home look like a magazine spread?

  Ugh. I clicked through to the message boards and opened the Home Challenge Guide Emily had written for us.

  “Ready to start? First I’m going to teach you how to clean up your space, naturally. Check out these recipes for homemade cleaning products!”

  I snapped my computer shut. As I looked at Aubrey, who had fallen asleep in a pile of mismatched socks, I knew it: this challenge was going to end me.

  5 P.M.

  Keeping your home clutter-free should be a priority for all mothers. When a home is tidy and organized children are far more relaxed and better behaved. If you don’t have live-in help, spend 40 minutes a day picking up and keep all toys out of sight.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  David should have already come home. Balancing a still-pajamaed Aubrey on my hip, I stood in front of the stove and stirred the rice, soy sauce, cubed chicken and broccoli concoction I’d thrown together half an hour earlier. If only the recipe website I’d used had been more specific about cooking the rice before mixing it with the other ingredients. I hoped David didn’t mind it a little al dente.

  Other than my blasphemous attempt at stir fry, I felt more put together than normal. Aubrey’d had a great nap and I’d already done the obligatory pre-husband-coming-home speed clean. David and I had an unspoken rule that he wasn’t allowed to see the state of our home before I could take it from Dumpster Rat Wedding to Somewhat Livable. It wasn’t about my feeling like I had to show off for him, it was about my dignity as a person. I couldn’t let him see how I lived during the day.

  My phone buzzed on the counter. It was David. Be home in 20 min.

  Put all the toys back in their bins.

  Clear the dining room table of breakfast plates, milk splotches, dirty bibs, baby socks, empty bowls with dried-up baby-food goo and junk mail.

  Sweep the Funny O’s off the floor.

  Wipe my hair off the bathroom floor (seriously, it looked like an infestation of seaweed on a dried up beach).

  Pick up the clothes that I’d left all over the house during the day.

  Hastily make our bed.

  Wipe down the kitchen counters.

  Spray some all-purpose cleaner into the air to give the impression that someone who lives here cares.

  This is the type of cleaning that affects the top layer of the house only. If you were to open a closet door, an avalanche of random goods would come bursting out, revealing me as the fraud I am. To move any appliance half an inch to the left or right would expose a grime outline like some sort of waiting-to-be-filled-in coloring sheet. Peek into a linen closet and you’d find bunched up fitted sheets, towels strewn about and random panties.

  A quick once-over of the interior of my home would fool you into thinking that someone conscientious and domestically proficient resides within these walls, but no. Anyone with an eye for detail, i.e., my mother-in-law, would know better in a matter of moments.

  I’ve gotten really good at the speed clean over the past few months but the Motherhood Better Home Challenge is all about making real change. I don’t want Aubrey to grow up in a pigsty, embarrassed to bring her friends over to the house.

  * * *

  Flash-forward to ten years from now...

  Me: Aubrey, why don’t you have a sleepover this weekend?

  Aubrey: (taking my hand) I’d love to, Mom, but the other parents won’t let their children spend the night here on account of the... (She gestures around the room at the laundry pile that is now to the ceiling.)

  * * *

  No. I needed to get this under control now. Tomorrow I tackle the clothing situation that is haunting me like some kind of 100-percent-cotton phantom of the opera.

  I shifted Aubrey onto my other hip and mixed our sorry dinner some more.

  “All it needs is a little love,” I sang to Aubrey as I brought a mouthful of the now-congealing goo to my lips, blowing before tasting it. The gummy rice was somehow still hard in the middle. I felt the grains crack u
nder my molars.

  Aubrey winced, “Yucky.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Tuesday, February 26, 10:30 A.M.

  “What have I gotten myself into?” I whispered. There I sat, smack dab in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by no less than eighteen loads of laundry that represented every item of clothing my family owned. The oppressive cotton and poly-spandex blends formed valleys and peaks, they mingled, socks with ties, panty hose with infant tutus, conspiring against my sanity like rebel forces. The dark wood was completely hidden under the sea of multicolored, wrinkled fabric.

  At 9:30 that morning I decided to jump into the Home Challenge headfirst and tackle the first of three of Emily’s sub-challenges.

  Motherhood Better Mail

  From: Emily Walker

  To: My Mommies

  Good morning from Manhattan! I’m meeting with buyers from Neiman Marcus (hush-hush!) this morning and will have a big surprise for you in a couple of days. But first, as you know, I’ve divided the Home Challenge into three bite-sized goals that I just know you ladies are going to rock.

  Declutter

  Deep Clean

  Design

  Today we’re tackling a hot topic: laundry. Are you REALLY wearing all of those clothes? Lay everything out in front of you and get rid of what you haven’t worn in the past ten days. Only store pieces that 1) you truly cherish, such as your wedding dress or a piece from the Emily Walker MAMA collection coming out this fall, or 2) you can say with 99% certainty you’ll wear again one day—like how the MAMA collection can follow you through all of the stages of motherhood. Do the same for your kids. This challenge is all about making your life and homes LIGHTER! Can you feel it? You’re a cloud.

  Love you!

  Xox Emily

  I’d tried earlier that morning to organize Aubrey’s closet and was doing pretty well until the crushing nervous breakdown complete with heaving sobs. It didn’t happen all at once. In fact, everything was going fine up until I found her newborn socks. Newborn socks that she’ll never wear again, to be more specific.

  I’d been sorting her clothes into two storage containers: one massive gray one for donating and one medium-sized blue one for keepsake items to reminisce over when I’m seventy or to give to my grandchildren. After twenty minutes, the donation container was next to empty, other than an over-the-top stark white, frilly newborn dress, complete with a scratchy tulle liner and headband that Gloria tried to insist I bring Aubrey home in.

  I declined, of course. It seemed cruel to make an infant go from floating within the soft, warm walls of the embryonic sac to scratchy tulle in a matter of hours. The only solution had been to misplace the hideous dress until Aubrey grew out of it.

  I’d just thrown the garment into the donation container and was scraping around the back of her closet when I found the socks. Two little yellow fuzzy socks that never seemed to stay on her plucky newborn feet. They were like chicken legs; I remembered how her toes would fray when she cried.

  And, oh, how she cried. I’d heard babies cry before and it had never affected me, but her screechy wails sent pangs to my heart in a way that was so unexpected and all-consuming. Sitting on Aubrey’s pale pink carpet, I thought about how it seemed like yesterday that I would swaddle her in a white muslin blanket (my wrapping style was rather sloppy and she often looked like a messy burrito) and tug those socks onto her feet. Three seconds later they were off again.

  I know they say newborns can’t smile and it’s just gas, but I swear, every time I, exasperated, put those socks back on her, the edges of her mouth would turn up as if to say, “I don’t think so, lady.”

  As I held the socks, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, watching my now nine-month-old play with her toes that were so much bigger and less chicken-like and more toddler-like, I started to cry. Almost a year had gone by. It was all happening too fast. I can’t even remember what it felt like to hold Aubrey as a newborn. All I had left were her socks, and I was supposed to just give them away?

  I began to pull out all of her newborn sleepers, blankets and bitty hats. These were not just clothes, they were memories from my first few months of being a mom. I couldn’t throw them in a black garbage bag and leave them outside of a donation center on the sidewalk like trash. It’s easier for Emily, she has five kids and gets to see the same socks worn over and over. I only have Aubrey and frankly, my plate feels full, overflowing, really.

  I added the socks to the Keep pile. And then the sleepers. Then the hats. Then the burp rags, so soft from multiple washings. In half an hour, I’d gone through every item Aubrey had ever owned and not only had I failed to part with anything, I also had a headache from crying.

  #Success.

  Then I remembered a DIY quilt tutorial I’d seen on Pinterest. Who knew—maybe one day I’d turn all of this into a fabulous, handmade blanket. The chances of that are about as high as me taking up competitive deep-sea diving, but it was the only excuse I needed to put all of Aubrey’s outgrown clothes right back in the closet where I found them. At least they were folded now. That had to count for something.

  Things went a little better with my own clothes. As I already knew, I owned a separate wardrobe for each of the different versions of myself.

  Pre-Pregnancy Me

  This person was always trying to improve her body despite being quite hot. She owned pantsuits, fitted sports jackets (that I can no longer button over a wobbly muffin top), skinny jeans for spending the day shopping or reading in a bookstore, matching exercise outfits, bras that wouldn’t come close to containing the gals today and cute, teeny-tiny panties that would maybe cover one of my butt cheeks.

  Pregnant Me

  This person started off cute enough: fashionable, boot-cut maternity jeans and silky tops that were professional but showed off my teeny-tiny bump. Dressing for the beginning of my second trimester was a blast. I had a perfectly round bump that was downright adorable under baby-doll dresses and clingy tops.

  Somewhere between the end of the twenty-eighth week and the beginning of the thirtieth, I exploded into a sea creature and grew so large that strangers winced as I waddled past them. Bye-bye stretchy denim, hello yoga pants. Dressing for comfort meant breathable fabrics, dark colors (to hide the food stains) and whatever shirts would cover my rapidly expanding bump.

  Postpartum Me

  Even if I could fit back into my pre-pregnancy clothes, I wouldn’t wear them. My days are spent collapsing strollers, rolling around the living room floor, running errands and foraging for coffee. Pantsuits? Yeah, right. I wear absorbent fabrics because they double as a paper towel. If it looks and feels like pajamas, sign me up. A fashion designer might call my look Sleepwear Chic or Bedroom Casual.

  All I could do was stare at my entire adult life represented in skirts, bras and tops. Where to even begin?

  Aubrey let out a muffled squeal from under a maternity shirt. I pulled it off her and she beamed. Silly girl. I rubbed the pale blue stretchy cotton between my fingers. This was the shirt I was wearing when I first felt her kick.

  “That’s enough, little missy,” I said, plopping her into her jumparoo hanging in the doorway. She began pushing off the floor with her footie-pajamaed legs, launching herself into the air and then bouncing back again. They really should make those for adults.

  I dragged four large storage containers into the room from the hallway. Time to organize.

  An hour later, Aubrey was asleep in her playpen and I snapped the last storage container shut. On my bed were six pairs of black stretch pants, eight tank tops, two dresses and four sweatshirts. That’s it. That’s all I wear. I basically had the wardrobe (but not the body!) of a yoga instructor.

  Now the big question: What to do with the two humongous storage containers of clothes that either a) not even a 10-day juice cleanse would get me
into or b) are impractical for my life as a stay-at-home mom? Giving them away seems hasty. What if I go back to work?

  And my maternity wardrobe cost a small fortune. I bought it before I knew how much formula cost. Even if I didn’t intend to get pregnant again, I should at least try to sell it. Yes, that’s what I’d do, I decided. Not today, obviously. I’d already overextended myself. If anyone had earned a break, it was me.

  I quietly pushed the storage containers into the hall, knowing that David would move them to the garage as soon as he got tired of tripping over them.

  All in all, I felt like I’d aced the day. Maybe I didn’t get rid of anything, but I did move it all around, which counts for something.

  8 P.M.

  David was working late again, so with Aubrey sleeping soundly, tuckered out from another splashy bath, I took the opportunity to learn a little more about my Motherhood Better Bootcamp competitors. While we’re buddy-buddy on the conference calls, at the end of the day, we all want to take home the $100,000 grand prize.

  Based on their Motherhood Better community posts and profiles, I think I know who’ll be the biggest competition.

  Fiona Martin: mom of three. Despite probably being up to her armpits in diapers, during the craft challenge she learned how to jar fresh tomatoes from her garden and crocheted hats for an entire neonatal intensive care unit.

  Janice Paulsen: mom of three girls ages three months, four, and six. She took the body challenge and ran with it. Literally. She completed her first marathon last week and is launching her own line of weightlifting DVDs for postpartum moms.

  And last, but not least, Samantha Davidson: mom of two-year-old Henry. I knew her face looked familiar. Samantha’s a hugely popular mom blogger. Her website, Homestead Mama, is full of gorgeous photos of her ranch and horses, and her down-home country recipes.

  I can’t even look at her dishes after 9 p.m. They say her macaroni and cheese changes lives. What is she doing in this competition? Every other pic on her blog is of her beautiful son running through wheat fields in overalls with a red bandana around his neck and a cowboy hat sitting atop his golden ringlets. I read all of her Motherhood Better journal entries and she’s completing them perfectly. For the marriage challenge she took it a step further by organizing a massive in-hospital date night for pregnant moms on bed rest. It was catered by a Mexican restaurant and she even hired a mariachi band.