Confessions of a Domestic Failure Read online

  Hey guys, friendless mom looking for a new bestie. Need someone to share secrets with? I’m your gal!

  Maybe something a little more subtle.

  Lonely, unemployed, reluctant stay-at-home mom looking for 2–3 moms for my mama bear pack. Must be cool, love complaining, not be a YES Wrap representative and be imperfect. Must NOT have a Pinterest account.

  I know the last part sounds harsh, but I don’t need a crafter in my life. You know why? Because it’ll only be a matter of time before I’ve spent $500 on yarn, crotchet needles, puff paints and a glass-etching kit in a sad, futile attempt to become her. I’m too easily influenced to have these bad seeds in my emotional space. I need another sister in failure. Someone who not only fails to achieve resolutions but forgets she even made them. Yeah. Someone like that. A leader.

  Being a new mom is like being a freshman in high school. You have just a few days to find your clique and commit to the corresponding lifestyle. So far, the available groups are:

  Crunchy Moms

  Stay-at-Home Moms

  Working, Executive-Type Ambitious Moms

  Moms Who Hate Their Jobs But Do Them Anyway

  Wine Moms

  Hot Moms

  There’s a bit of overlap here and there, but so far I haven’t found one that I identify with and, therefore, still have exactly zero friends. It’s getting a little old walking Aubrey through the park alone, especially when it seems like there are groups of moms gathered all over the place, laughing, smiling, being best friends and sharing stories about their kids. I want to share stories about kids. Someone should invent a match.com just for moms who want to find their life mom-mate.

  It seems like once you’re an adult, if you don’t already have your friends picked out, you’re screwed. Nobody makes new friends after twenty-seven.

  I miss my office friends, but since I had Aubrey, they’ve all vanished. I don’t blame them. Given the choice, who would want to spend an afternoon at the park with me and Aubrey when they could be getting manicures? I just wish they would have kept in touch more than the occasional “She’s so cute!” Facebook comment.

  All I want is one mom friend I can talk to about life. Is that too much to ask? In fourth grade my best friend was Ruthie Miller. We did everything together. We ate lunch every day in the cafeteria side by side, we played at recess, we even sat together on the bus. I was never lonely because she was always there. She was my default person. I need a Mom Ruthie.

  Hospitals and birthing centers should assign every woman a mom friend the second they give birth. Then we wouldn’t have to spend afternoons alone on the living room floor wishing we had someone other than people in mail delivery to chat with.

  How amazing would it be to have a best friend who lived across the street? We’d talk about everything. How David has been working twelve-hour days, but I feel bad complaining because he’s the only one bringing in an income right now and seems super stressed-out, even though I’m also super stressed-out. I’d tell her about how I feel like being a stay-at-home mom is amazing because I get to watch Aubrey grow right in front of my eyes and, while my heart is so full of love for her that it feels like it’s going to explode, how I’d do anything for just one good nap. I’d also tell her that I feel like I matter less to David since having her. How I feel like he sees me as some kind of maid/caretaker to his child and not the woman he pined for desperately for years. I can’t remember the last time he asked me how I am.

  I’d listen to her rants, too, of course. Friendship, especially one based on complaining, is a two-way street.

  David had worked through the last few weekends but took today off so we could all go to the FunsieLand play center together. Before becoming a mom I avoided places like FunsieLand like the plague. Every once in a while I’d get invited to a coworker’s child’s birthday party and would always make a point of sending a huge gift in lieu of my actual presence. The last thing I wanted to do was spend five hours in a loud, rave-like, plastic ball and E. coli petri dish, but since there aren’t many places where parents feel 100 percent okay letting their kids be kids, that’s where we were headed to this morning.

  It’d be nice to do something as a family. David had been so busy lately. Every time I asked him how Keller & Associates was going, he would close up. I wanted to support him, but talking about work just stressed him out even more. A day of bonding as a family was just what we needed.

  9 P.M.

  I need three shots of vodka, a hot shower and a shot of penicillin. To think, for my entire adult life I’ve avoided play centers because of the kids, when the real monsters lurking in those places were the moms.

  We made it to the play center at 10 a.m., and even though it’d just opened, it was already so loud that David and I had to scream in order to be heard.

  “LET’S SET UP BY THE BABY AREA!” I yelled, one hand over Aubrey’s ear as I carried her through the center that was packed with shrieking, running and crying children. Above us, a twisted spiral of tubes was filled with children, crawling like rats through plumbing.

  I motioned to David, who had both hands over his ears and whose eyes were wide with terror.

  “WHAT?” he yelled back. A five-year-old crashed into his legs and fell to the floor, laughing hysterically.

  “THE BABY AREA!” I motioned toward the back of the sprawling center.

  We navigated carefully around birthday parties, children who seemed jacked up on Mountain Dew and rock cocaine, and seemingly millions of small multicolored balls that were everywhere.

  From atop a small stage, a band of large furry animals sang a song about a big blue boat. The music boomed across the entire arena.

  We finally made our way toward a door in front of a clear Plexiglas wall. On the other side of it was a smaller version of a play center: a carpeted room featuring a small jungle gym. It was littered with stuffed toys and babies crawling around their parents.

  David pulled the door open and I hurried through with Aubrey. As soon as it was shut there was silence. We took off our shoes (Shoes Off in Babyland, Please!) and let out a deep sigh of relief, as if we’d just narrowly escaped with our lives. David pointed back toward the chaos that was now a muted version of insanity. “We are NEVER having Aubrey’s birthday party there.”

  “I agree.”

  We scoured the sides of the Baby Room and found a section of wall without a diaper bag leaning against it.

  David and I sat cross-legged on the floor and placed Aubrey in front of us.

  I bent down to her. “Okay, Aubrey, go! Play.”

  She sat up and stared out into the play area where other children were flailing on their backs and older babies were struggling to make their way up the small slide stairs.

  She instantly burst into tears.

  “Awww, Aubs,” David reached out his arms and pulled Aubrey into them. “Don’t cry, honey.” He pulled her close and pressed her face into his chest with his hand.

  My heart fluttered as I watched the two great loves of my life embrace. Nobody can prepare you for the magic that is watching the man you love become a father. I found myself swooning every time I caught him gazing at Aubrey, feeding her or just cradling her in his arms.

  A woman’s high-pitched voice cut through the moment. “She doesn’t socialize much, does she?”

  I turned to the mom on my left. She was in her mid-thirties and was wearing dark blue jeans and a pink sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

  “What?” I said, looking around.

  The mom crossed her arms. “Your daughter. She doesn’t spend much time with other kids, does she?”

  My mouth hung open. I didn’t even know what to say.

  “She doesn’t have many friends or coworkers, no...” I said slowly.

  The woman smiled tightly. “Funny. Bu
t it’s not going to be funny when she’s eighteen and still living in your basement. Let me guess, stay-at-home mommy?”

  I tried to smile back. “...Yes.”

  The mom examined her nails. “I can tell. You’re really going to want to get her socialized ASAP.”

  David, who had been listening quietly, cut in. “She’s a baby, not a dog.”

  “David,” I whispered, trying to calm him down.

  The woman pursed her lips. “I was just trying to help.” She collected her bag and walked away.

  “The nerve of that woman,” David said when she walked away.

  “David,” I hissed. “We’re here to have fun.”

  “I know but—” He motioned in the direction of the woman.

  I gave him a look before picking Aubrey up and carrying her over to the center of the room where several babies were playing with the communal toys.

  Aubrey and I sat down with the other moms. I could feel myself starting to sweat. Hanging out with other moms always made me nervous. I was terrified of coming off as a parenting noob and highly conscious of how desperately I wanted the friendship of even just one of these women.

  I sat Aubrey down and pushed a blinking jack-in-the-box toward her. Aubrey smiled and began tapping the buttons with her hands.

  “Is that fun, baby?” Aubrey pressed another button and a rabbit popped out of one of the toy’s hidden doors. She screamed with delight.

  I looked up at the other moms. Surely people were taking notice of me and my adorable child having a Hallmark moment. Then, out of nowhere, Aubrey began to cry. I looked down just in time to see an eighteen-month-old little boy wearing a pair of brown cotton shorts and a red shirt toddling away with the toy she had been squealing over.

  I scooped the hysterical Aubrey up and followed the boy to where he sat down to play. He was seated next to a young mom with blond curly hair wearing a flowing burnt-orange dress.

  “Excuse me,” I said, kneeling down next to her. “My daughter was playing with that toy when your son came over and grabbed it.”

  She stared at me blankly before pushing a stray hair out of her face. “I’m sorry?”

  Her son was now happily playing with the toy Aubrey had had earlier while Aubrey sobbed.

  “Your son, he grabbed that toy out of my daughter’s hands.” I pointed to the little boy sticking his tongue out at me.

  The mom held up a hand defensively, “Please do not point at River. We point at places, not people.”

  “Okay...” I said, lowering my hand.

  “And I’m sorry your daughter is having a shadow experience today, but we do not force River to share.”

  “You what now?” I asked, puzzled.

  “We do not force River to share. River makes his own decisions. It’s part of his journey,” she said, smiling serenely.

  “What? Lady—”

  “Please do not gender me,” the woman said, shaking her head.

  “My daughter is going to need that toy back,” I said flatly.

  “Please do not gender your child,” she said, staring at me.

  “Okay, that’s quite enough.” I reached down and pulled the toy away from River. He let out a squeal.

  The woman was livid. “How dare you?”

  A play center supervisor wearing a white shirt with the center’s logo on it walked over. “Is there a problem here?”

  River’s mom stood up and put her hands on her hips. “This woman just snatched a toy out of my child’s hands!”

  I struggled to stand while holding Aubrey. “Only after he took it from mine.”

  David popped up. “What’s going on, Ashley?”

  The employee, a man in his early twenties with a crew cut, spoke up. “It appears as if your wife took a toy from a baby.”

  David looked at me, startled. “Is this true?”

  “Yes, but no, he took it from Aubrey first...”

  David could barely speak. “Took a toy from a baby?”

  The employee put a hand on my elbow, “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Fine. We don’t want to be here with this kind of lawlessness anyway.” I turned to River’s mom. “This isn’t over.”

  I took a step forward and felt my foot sink into something mushy.

  “What the—” I looked down and saw that I was four toes deep in a soft turd.

  “I eliminated, Mama,” said River.

  David laughed all the way home, and eventually even I had to giggle after replaying how I hopped through the play center on one foot to the public bathroom to wash off River’s elimination.

  “You do realize we can never go back there again, right?” said David, struggling to hold back hysterical laughter.

  “Do you think there’s a photo of me by the cash register?” I said, a smile playing on my lips.

  “Hopefully it’s not scratch and sniff,” he said, dissolving into hysterics.

  He reached over and took my hand. Our fingers intertwined as Aubrey slept in the backseat.

  As we turned off of the freeway I stared at David. It felt so good to laugh again together. I studied his profile as he drove: his strong jaw, five o’clock shadow...he really was incredibly handsome. This is what I wanted when I found out we were pregnant—to just enjoy being together as a family. Sure, there was less foreign kid feces in my fantasy, but all in all, I considered the day a success. A poop-covered success.

  Sunday, January 27, 4:30 P.M.

  I spend every Sunday morning doing a deep clean of my home. My littles love to help with age-appropriate jobs like wiping down silk flowers, stirring the compost and watering our bonsai trees.

  —Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

  Impossible Goal of the Day: Declutter everything.

  My closet is no longer a closet. It is a mini-secondhand store/storage space for all of Aubrey’s things. How can a baby so small have so much stuff? I know it’s my fault, but girl clothes are so cute. How am I supposed to not spend every last dime buying clothes I never put her in? I know for a fact that her wardrobe is worth more than mine. All of the money I used to spend on myself, I now spend on her.

  My postpartum body doesn’t exactly say DRESS ME UP! If it could talk, it’d probably say something like, STOP WITH ALL THE CHOCOLATE, or COVER ME WITH A BURLAP SACK.

  In my closet are no less than four sizes of clothing that serve as a living monument to the old me, the pregnant me, the postpartum me and the postpartum-PMS-bloated me. I read in AllWomen magazine that your closet is a metaphor for your subconscious. If that’s true, then my subconscious is a mess and needs to be taken out back and put out of its misery.

  Confession: I hate cleaning.

  Does anyone else find it entirely unreasonable that a human being should be required to cook AND clean on the same day? I woke up determined to get my kitchen in a state that doesn’t make me shrink with shame. David ended up having to go into the office so I spent Aubrey’s afternoon nap wearing ill-fitting rubber gloves scouring the stove top, washing dishes, organizing cabinets, sweeping, mopping, etc.

  Ridiculous Things I Found In Our Pantry:

  5 partially consumed boxes of cereal

  3 cans of fortified shakes for pregnant women (I drank one. Don’t judge me; it was chocolate.)

  7 boxes of cake mix (I made a cake.)

  3 tubs of frosting (I frosted the cake. See? I’m baking.)

  3 one-pound bags of cashews from when I wanted to make my own cashew butter (Homesteaders. Don’t ask.)

  When I was done my kitchen sparkled like it never had before. Aubrey woke up and I honestly felt like an amazing woman and mom until I realized something. I had to start dinner. In an hour, the kitchen would be destroyed. It seemed like a waste of my hard work so I
ordered Chinese food, instead.

  As I bounced a cranky post-nap Aubrey on my hip while watching television in the living room, I couldn’t help but wish David were home. It was Sunday, after all. I glanced around the room trying to think of something to do while waiting for the food to be delivered.

  I wished parenting books talked about how utterly boring motherhood could be. I felt guilty for feeling it, but...I was bored. I tried to set Aubrey down on her foam mat, but as soon as her tiny feet grazed the floor, she let out a banshee scream. Like a good servant, I picked her right back up and headed into the kitchen to eat my feelings. Yes, food was coming any minute, but I needed calories to deal with my emotions.

  I grabbed a clean spoon out of the dishwasher and made my way toward the pantry. It only took a few seconds to pop the top off of the industrial-sized tub of peanut butter and dip my spoon into its creamy goodness. It was like therapy for my mouth.

  “Ah! Ah!” Aubrey begged for a taste. If she hadn’t already had peanut butter at Gloria’s house (even though I’d asked her not to give her any high-allergy foods—apparently peanut butter cookies don’t count), I would have hesitated. I watched, amused, as Aubrey worked the Tic Tac-sized piece of peanut butter around her mouth.

  “Pretty good, isn’t it? One day you’ll eat your feelings, too, honey,” I said, closing the pantry and sitting with Aubrey on my lap at the kitchen table. I sighed. I pulled out my cell phone and considered texting David just for a little conversation. No, he was probably busy. I put the phone back into my pocket.

  I don’t think he will ever fully understand what my life is like. I’m with Aubrey pretty much every waking minute. Yes, he and I are equal parents in the sense that we share equal DNA with the kid, but I’m with her all the time. I just want to talk to someone who doesn’t crap her pants every three hours.

  I’d kill for some adult conversation. Last Wednesday I tried to spark up a convo with a barista at the café. I think she could sense my desperation because she nodded and smiled as if speaking to a child bragging about how old they were.

  The other day the FedEx guy said, “How is everything?” and I went into a three-minute monologue about Aubrey’s sleep situation before the weird look on his face told me he was just being polite and not applying to be my therapist.