Confessions of a Domestic Failure Read online

  Motherhood and meal preparation go together like peanut butter and jelly.

  Note to self, I thought. Learn to love cooking.

  If June Cleaver were to enter my kitchen right now, she’d wonder two things...

  How does someone with such poor culinary skills make such a terrible mess?

  —and—

  Where is that smell coming from?

  To address the first query, people who have well-below-average cooking skills make bigger messes because, much like intoxicated folks, they are confused and disoriented. For example, last month I felt ambitious after watching a FoodTV episode about Eastern cooking and tried to make curry. I remember hearing that in India, they always stir-fry the spices to bring out the flavors. My interpretation of this step involved burning the spices in oil until they were a greasy, black, charred mess that not even cubed chicken, chickpeas and coconut basmati rice could save.

  It was a very sad, very bitter stew.

  David did his classic, head-cocked-to-one-side smile-frown before saying, “No, no, it’s good, just...strong.” He choked down another bite before gulping his entire glass of water in eight seconds. I think he was starting to sense how close to the edge I was, and was afraid to hurt my feelings lest I dissolve into a puddle of tears. Good. He’d always been good about picking up on my feelings. Needless to say, he didn’t pack the leftovers for lunch the next day.

  * * *

  Three hours after my disastrous curry dinner, the kitchen still looked like a culinary crime scene. Almost every pot, mixing bowl and wooden spoon was out, vegetable trimmings were still on the counters and the sink was overflowing with dishes.

  It’s tragic that such chaos birthed such bland food, and it’s a downright crime and shame that cooking must always be followed by cleaning.

  Now, to answer the second question. What’s that smell?

  The odor June would have taken exception to is coming from under the counter. Six weeks ago, when I was feeling particularly roosty and productive, I joined a Facebook group of homesteaders. These are people who don’t believe in grocery stores and try to live off the land as much as possible, in case civilization collapses. I just wanted to learn how to make bread.

  One of the members told me about how she grows potatoes in her crawlspace. Despite the fact that I am barely able to nurture a human child, I decided to try this form of indoor gardening in the darkness of a floor-level kitchen cabinet.

  The result was a gallon of rotten potato goo. My “starter spuds” melted into slop and seeped into the wood. I’ve tried bleach and vinegar, and I aired out the cabinet for weeks but the putrid smell still lingers. Would it have killed the potatoes to at least turn into vodka?

  Earlier this afternoon, I made the mistake of hopping onto Emily Walker’s Instagram to get a bit of dinner inspiration. Do you know what she made for her family tonight? Roasted rosemary organic chicken on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes with a side of sautéed baby spinach and crushed cashews. The photo looked like it was pulled right out of a gourmet cooking magazine. Even her tablecloth was fancy. My heart sank a little. There was no way I could do that with Aubrey crying on my hip, clawing at my neck like a gremlin. How did Emily do it? I consider grilled cheese with sliced red bell peppers a gourmet meal.

  I let out a sigh and looked around the dark living room, as if help was in one of the corners cluttered with Aubrey’s toys. Sensing no woodland fairy was going to pop out of nowhere and fix my life, I sat down on the couch and my hand settled on something hard. My laptop. I went onto Emily Walker’s website, hoping to find an easier recipe for tomorrow, but instead saw a teaser link to a “special announcement” on the homepage.

  Are you ready, mommies? the teaser read. I clicked the link.

  To celebrate her book, she was launching a program called the Motherhood Better Bootcamp. Twelve moms would be chosen to be personally mentored by Emily herself, and—get this—at the end of the five-week transformation period the whole group would get flown out to Emily’s home in Napa Valley, California, for three days of wine, rest and relaxation.

  I continued to read. There was more.

  The mom who had the biggest transformation would win $100,000.

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  One thousand dollars, one hundred times.

  I was totally doing it. Not just for me, but for Aubrey. She deserved a great mom. A happy mom. A capable mom. She was too young to care that I had no idea what I was doing now, but what about when she was six or seven? By then she’d be old enough to compare me to the squash-scone-making moms of all her friends. I needed to change before that happened.

  Fingers and toes crossed.

  I clicked through to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp application. I filled in the basic information and then began tackling the harder questions.

  “Why do you want to be accepted?” I resisted the urge to write, “Because I suck at being a mom,” and wrote “To become the mom I know I can be in my heart.” That sounded like something Emily would say.

  It was almost midnight when I finally finished. My hand trembled a little as I pressed the green Submit button.

  A message screen opened.

  Thank you for applying to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp. The chosen participants will be announced next week. Have a beautiful day and don’t forget to sparkle.

  I looked at my phone. It was 12:14 a.m. Yeah, I’ll sparkle tomorrow. Like a zombie dipped in glitter.

  Tuesday, January 22, 5 A.M.

  Aubrey woke up extra early this morning. #SoBlessed. I’d planned on doing a few leg lifts but of course I had to check Facebook and fell right down the rabbit hole.

  What’s Facebook? It’s where moms like me post about how much we love the husbands who annoy the living bejesus out of us, and share expertly edited photos of our kids* and generally talk about our lives like we’re living in an enchanted fairy tale blessed by rainbow angel unicorns. In short, it’s for lying. But I’m addicted.

  * Joy will never admit to this, but I know for a fact that she thickens her kids’ eyelashes in Photoshop—I caught her in the act once.

  Joy (Easton) Thompson

  Status: Ella is LOVING her new BabyBGo Stroller!

  Below the status update was a photo of my dear sister in fitted black yoga gear—the expensive kind, not the cheapies I wear—pushing my adorable niece in a brand-new stroller that cost as much as my laptop. Her cleavage was perfect (nursing). “How is she so tiny?” I wondered, trying to blow up the photo. Maybe I should have tried those post-baby waist cincher things she swears by, but forcing myself into a corset while I was still bleeding post birth felt like a little much. Anyway, what is this, the Renaissance? She looked great, though. I hated her.

  Uncle Grover (yes, her husband, my brother-in-law, was named after a Muppet) must be doing really well. He’s an actuary. I have no idea what that means, and when he talks about his work during family functions I usually picture him dancing on Sesame Street hand in hand with Elmo.

  Note to self: Look up how much actuaries make. I’m super proud that my David is finally pursuing his dream and starting his own advertising agency and all, but it’d be nice to have some extra money for sexy yoga clothes and fancy strollers.

  But my sweet niece, Ella, really is beautiful. She looks just like her mom: dimpled cheeks, almond eyes, jet-black hair and a toothy smile. (Aubrey has yet to pop even one tooth.) Aubrey looks so much like David that I get asked constantly if I’m the babysitter. If I were the babysitter, wouldn’t I be better dressed and have time to put on some makeup?

  This is exactly why I hate Facebook. I know it’s just a website, but I truly believe from the bottom of my sleep-deprived heart that it has created absolute monsters out of the lot of us. If we’re not bragging and showing people (people we barely care about) our Pintere
st projects (I’ll tackle this cold sore of a website later), we’re comparing our lives with everyone else’s. I hate it. I hate it for making me jealous of Suzy Wexler, someone I haven’t seen since high school graduation sixteen years ago, but somehow know way too much about—including, but not limited to, the fact that her husband buys her flowers every single Friday.

  Every Friday.

  Did I mention that she lives in a gorgeous waterfront home in Malibu and is now a television executive? She and her husband, who looks like a silver-haired former Abercrombie model, have three kids plus two dogs that resemble tampons on legs. Somehow Suzy still looks like she could grace the cover of Self. As if I needed another reason to think I suck at life, Suzy’s three-kid body looks about five hundred times better than my slashed-with-stretch-marks-like-I’ve-been-in-a-naked-knife-fight, pizza-dough-belly, one-kid body. David tells me I’m beautiful, but it’s while he’s pawing me in the dark, obviously trying to butter me up for some action.

  In short, I did NOT need to wake up to a photo of Suzy Wexler’s thin, beautiful form lying on a beach chair in front of her backyard pool. Not when I’m still wearing maternity tops.

  Of course, I accidentally clicked Like on said photo, which prompted an almost immediate, Thanks Ashley! How are you? from my ever-polite old high school friend.

  It should be illegal to be gorgeous and sweet. It’s not fair. Just pick one. You cannot be a good person and hot. Hot and evil, yes. Homely and sweet, that’s okay, too. Pick a lane.

  I told her how much I’m loving motherhood, not being able to lose my baby weight and feeling like I’m losing my mind. Okay, maybe I left out the last couple of things.

  It ended with Suzy saying, We have to catch up sometime!

  Of course, Suzy. I’ll just jump on a plane to Malibu with Aubrey and put on my ratty pregnancy swimsuit with the full skirt to hide my grizzly-bear bikini line while we chat and drink mimosas. You can tell me what it’s like to be successful and meet celebrities every day, and I can tell you about the Target bill that I’m currently hiding on top of the microwave until I can explain to my better half how I spent $2,000 on miscellaneous goods.

  I hate having to explain my purchases to him, like I’m a child, just because he’s the breadwinner.

  Note: I’m doing my best to get my spending under control but it’s hard when (1) Target is life and (2) spending money is my love language.

  I’m planning on deactivating my Facebook account just as soon as I upload some photos of Aubrey in a dandelion field from last weekend.

  11 P.M.

  Motherhood is a gift that keeps on giving. When your child whines, they’re telling you they love you. Learn to hear their nighttime cries as a heavenly song composed by your little angel.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Aubrey just woke up. Her new thing is to go directly from REM to a level-ten scream. It’s awful, and I’m considering calling for an old priest and a young priest. I settled her down, but now I’m wide awake and exhausted at the same time.

  David always says, “Just lie down, you’ll fall asleep eventually.” Yeah, after my mind picks apart every mistake I’ve ever made since I was three, every possible bad thing that could ever happen to Aubrey in her entire life and then tosses around the “What am I going to make for dinner tomorrow?” query. It’s so easy for men to fall asleep. Scientists should study whatever enzyme it is that they produce that helps them turn off their brains at night and drift into that deep, annoying I-can’t-hear-the-baby-crying slumber. They could turn it into a sleeping pill that women can take.

  But good for him for being able to snore it up while I can’t even remember what it feels like to sleep through an entire night. Great for him. I’m happy. He needs the sleep. He works outside of the home, right? He has to fight traffic. All I have to fight is the 1 p.m. urge to inhale my weight in cheesy puffs. But, I mean, isn’t raising a child a job, too? Yeah, I do it at home, but it isn’t exactly a cakewalk. It’s not like I lounge on the couch painting my nails, eating bonbons all day.

  I’d give blood plasma for a night nanny. It’s not fair that only celebrities who are already rich, famous and beautiful also get to be rested while I’m lying here in stretch pants covered in mysterious stains trying to remember the last time I took a shower. The other day I thought I smelled curdled milk. It was me. I smell like a yogurt factory.

  I guessed I should try to sleep again, even though I knew the moment I lay down she’d start crying.

  Help.

  Wednesday, January 23, 10 A.M.

  Coffee is a crutch for stressed-out, joyless moms. To stay energized, I start each morning with positive affirmations and loose-leaf hibiscus-beet tea sweetened with honey from my family’s own hive.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Impossible Goal of the Day: Stay awake.

  It was not even noon and I was a complete zombie. I didn’t end up falling asleep until 4 a.m. and Aubrey was up by 5. When David kissed me on the cheek and jetted out of the house, I would’ve held on to the hem of his jacket and panic-whispered, “Take me with you!” if I didn’t think I’d look like a complete lunatic. Instead, I gave him a very quick peck and felt guilty for an hour afterward. It wasn’t his fault I was struggling with this whole motherhood thing. Note to self: Be a sweeter wife and ask how business is going.

  I was on my fourth cup of coffee, so while my body felt dead, my mind was racing. I felt like a coked-out sloth. Can sloths do cocaine? It’s made from a jungle plant, right? What if sloths figured out the recipe and started making it? We’d have an epidemic of drug-addicted sloths. We’d have to change their name from sloths to fasts. We’d also have to invent sloth rehabilitation centers complete with beautiful waterfalls and sloth sharing circles of trust.

  I pulled out my phone. How was it only 10 a.m.? It was as if time was moving slowly to punish me for staying up too late. It was then I remembered. The Motherhood Better application. Emily was probably reading it right now in her massive Los Angeles kitchen, sitting at the counter with her five perfectly dressed children. She was most likely wearing a bone-white cardigan over a pink, lace-trimmed sundress and strappy flats. I bet she drinks her organic teas out of real china. I looked down at the plastic, lidless sippy cup I was slurping my vanilla-flavored coffee in.

  I needed to win this.

  Aubrey brought me back to earth by throwing a handful of Funny O’s at me. One landed in my coffee.

  We had to get out of the house or I was going to fall asleep right then and there. Wait—would that be bad? Yes, time to go.

  3 P.M.

  I tiptoed out of Aubrey’s dark room toward the door. Turning back, I took a moment to admire her little body, splayed out on her back in the green-and-yellow pajamas she lived in these days. I closed the door slowly, stopping before it was completely shut. I’d learned the hard way that the smallest click of the door closing woke Aubrey up. Nobody tells you that babies hear like dogs.

  Today turned out to be better than I’d ever imagined it could be on so little sleep. I’d made a friend! This was huge, because I was just reading about how Emily Walker believes creating your mama village is an essential part of happy motherhood. Of course, the mom friends who show up on her blog all look like freelance models, but who cares? We were all the same on the inside. Of course, their insides probably had no cellulite but that’s neither here nor there, either.

  Here’s how it happened. I was sleep-shopping at BabyOutlet (spending money helps me stay awake) and the sweetest-looking mom with her four-year-old son in tow approached me out of nowhere and asked how old Aubrey was. Everyone knows that inquiring about the age of a baby is how moms break the ice. I must have been letting off some seriously positive vibes because we talked right there in the six-to-twelve-months girls’ section for fifteen minutes and exchanged phone numbers! She raved o
ver Aubrey and said that her cousin’s best friend’s stepsister’s daughter didn’t get her first baby tooth until ten months and that it’s totally normal. Her name was Isabel and I loved her.

  Get this. She’s already texted me and invited me to a playdate for the following day. I was practically giddy and would have done a cartwheel if I’d had the energy. I was only two chapters into Motherhood Better and was already about to meet my group of probably lifelong mom friends. My own mama village—as Emily called it.

  I could already imagine how we’d spend afternoons together drinking tea (wine), laughing, baking bread, making double casseroles so we could trade, gardening, telling secrets...and then when our kids grew up and married each other we’d all go on epic road trips in between meet-ups with our grandchildren who were practically all related. Okay, maybe that last part was a little creepy, but I was excited.

  As I was walking down the stairs, being careful to avoid the two that creak, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  It was Isabel.

  Just wanted to let you know you can bring friends tomorrow!

  How sweet! If I’d had any other friends, I certainly would have. I texted back that I’d ask around, which I did. I asked around the living room. There was no need to tip her off that I was a loner.

  I curled up on the couch and flipped on the TV. Soaps. Soaps. And more soaps.

  It didn’t matter, though. Within thirty seconds I was asleep.

  9 P.M.

  David was brushing his teeth in the bathroom when Isabel texted me to let me know that there would be gifts at the party tomorrow.

  My shoulders did a little dance as I sat in bed. Gifts? Maybe this was her circle’s way of welcoming me into the fold. I was going to bring my famous Lemon Poppyseed Cake. Technically, it was Joy’s famous Lemon Poppyseed Cake, but nobody needed to know that I stole the recipe off my sister’s computer after she stole my baby name.