Bunmi Laditan - Confessions Of A Domestic Failure

Saturday, January 26, 10 A.M.

Of course Emily had to keep everyone on their toes until the last sixty seconds of her show. Well, I didn’t make it into the Motherhood Better Bootcamp, but I wasn’t going to let it get to me. Emily said something on her show today that really struck me. “I wasn’t born a good mom, I willed myself into one.” All I needed to do was try harder. I needed to put the same energy that I once put into my job into motherhood.

I had Emily’s book. I could do this on my own. I decided to embark on a mission called Ashley the Perfect-ish Mom. First thing in the morning I was going to join a gym (or at least research gyms), eat healthy and be the best, most attentive mom ever.

It was time for me to stop living in dirty sweats and move up to the fancy $10 stretch pants from ShopMart. I was going to start dressing up Aubrey like a human and not a Les Misérables extra. I was browsing Etsy right then, picking out some bows. She needed them. I’m not saying she looked like a boy, but I swear she could be sitting in a pink stroller, wearing a pink and purple dress, with a fluorescent flashing sign that read, I’M FEMALE, and people would still ask “How old is your son?”

Anyway, maybe I’d even start juicing once I figured out exactly what that was and if mix-ins like tequila were allowed (tequila is from a plant).

I had this.

Impossible Goal of the Day: Get accepted into a group of mom friends, or at least make one awesome best friend sometime this century.

I joined three local mom Facebook groups but hadn’t posted yet.

What would I even say?

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:

1 Crunchy Moms

2 Stay-at-Home Moms

3 Working, Executive-Type Ambitious Moms

4 Moms Who Hate Their Jobs But Do Them Anyway

5 Wine Moms

6 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.”