Bunmi Laditan - Confessions Of A Domestic Failure

From the creator of The Honest Toddler comes a fiction debut sure to be a must-read for moms everywhere

There are good moms and bad moms—and then there are hot-mess moms. Introducing Ashley Keller, career girl turned stay-at-home mom who’s trying to navigate the world of Pinterest-perfect, Facebook-fantastic and Instagram-impressive mommies but failing miserably.

When Ashley gets the opportunity to participate in the Motherhood Better boot camp run by the mommy-blog-empire maven she idolizes, she jumps at the chance to become the perfect mom she’s always wanted to be. But will she fly high or flop?

With her razor-sharp wit and knack for finding the funny in everything, Bunmi Laditan creates a character as flawed and lovable as Bridget Jones or Becky Bloomwood while hilariously lambasting the societal pressures placed upon every new mother. At its heart, Ashley’s story reminds moms that there’s no way to be perfect, but many ways to be great.

Confessions of a Domestic Failure

Bunmi Laditan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my hearts: M, T and F.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text From the creator of The Honest Toddler comes a fiction debut sure to be a must-read for moms everywhere There are good moms and bad moms—and then there are hot-mess moms. Introducing Ashley Keller, career girl turned stay-at-home mom who’s trying to navigate the world of Pinterest-perfect, Facebook-fantastic and Instagram-impressive mommies but failing miserably. When Ashley gets the opportunity to participate in the Motherhood Better boot camp run by the mommy-blog-empire maven she idolizes, she jumps at the chance to become the perfect mom she’s always wanted to be. But will she fly high or flop? With her razor-sharp wit and knack for finding the funny in everything, Bunmi Laditan creates a character as flawed and lovable as Bridget Jones or Becky Bloomwood while hilariously lambasting the societal pressures placed upon every new mother. At its heart, Ashley’s story reminds moms that there’s no way to be perfect, but many ways to be great.

Title Page Confessions of a Domestic Failure Bunmi Laditan www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedication To my hearts: M, T and F.

Monday, January 21, 5 A.M.

Tuesday, January 22, 5 A.M.

Wednesday, January 23, 10 A.M.

Thursday, January 24, 9 A.M.

Friday, January 25, 10 A.M.

Saturday, January 26, 10 A.M.

Sunday, January 27, 4:30 P.M.

Monday, January 28, NOON

Tuesday, January 29, 12:30 P.M.

Wednesday, January 30, 2 P.M.

Thursday, January 31, 9:30 A.M.

Friday, February 1, 11 A.M.

Saturday, February 2, 11 A.M.

Sunday, February 3, 9 A.M.

Monday, February 4, 11 A.M.

Tuesday, February 5, 11:30 A.M.

Wednesday, February 6, 3 P.M.

Thursday, February 7, 9 A.M.

Friday, February 8, 11 A.M.

Saturday, February 9, 9 A.M.

Sunday, February 10, 9:20 A.M.

Monday, February 11, 11 A.M.

Tuesday, February 12, 8 A.M.

Wednesday, February 13, 11 A.M.

Thursday, February 14, 2 P.M.

Friday, February 15, 6:30 A.M.

Saturday, February 16, 11 A.M.

Sunday, February 17, 1 P.M.

Monday, February 18, 10 A.M.

Tuesday, February 19, 9 A.M.

Thursday, February 21, 1 P.M.

Friday, February 22, 1:30 P.M.

Sunday, February 24, 3 P.M.

Monday, February 25, 10:30 A.M.

Tuesday, February 26, 10:30 A.M.

Wednesday, February 27, Middle of the Night Sometime/Too Tired to Care

Thursday, February 28, 5 A.M.

Friday, March 1, 4:45 P.M.

Saturday, March 2, 8:30 A.M.

Sunday, March 3, 9:30 A.M.

Monday, March 4, 10:30 A.M.

Wednesday, March 6, 6 A.M.

Thursday, March 7, 5:45 A.M.

Friday, March 8, 6 A.M.

Acknowledgments

Copyright

Monday, January 21, 5 A.M.

Aubrey’s ear-piercing cry rattled over the baby monitor, yanking me out of a deep sleep.

My eyes fluttered open. I looked at my phone’s clock. No, no, no, no, no.

I’d dreamt I had a full staff: a nanny, butler, housekeeper and full-time masseuse. The laundry mountain of shame that lives permanently on my living room couch had vanished, and in its place, eighty-one bottles of delicious exercise wine. What’s exercise wine? It’s a wine that, when consumed, stimulates your muscles, resulting in rock-hard abs. While my nanny, who wasn’t hot enough to be a threat, played with Aubrey on the floor, I enjoyed sip after mouthwatering sip and watched my kangaroo-pouch stomach tighten into a washboard.

Another scream over the monitor.

I don’t know whose grandmother I dropkicked into a well in a previous life to have an eight-month-old who regularly wakes up before the sun, but I wanted to apologize. I glanced at my darling husband, David, who was sleeping soundly. I watched him breathe deeply and suppressed the urge to smother him with a pillow. How was it that he could hear me adjusting the thermostat from two rooms away but could sleep through the ear-stabbing howls of our eight-month-old every morning?

“I know you’re faking,” I whispered, trying to call his bluff. No movement.

I threw my legs over the side of the bed and bent down to find my trusty black stretch pants. They’re the same ones I’d been wearing for the past two, three, maybe six days. They didn’t smell bad, they smelled...rich with character.

After making my way to the bathroom, I splashed a bit of water on my face, hoping the H20 would magically fade the dark circles around my eyes. I glanced into the mirror and was surprised to see Medusa staring back at me, but instead of snakes coming out of my head, there was just a ratty ponytail. I ran my fingers through the mess and cringed. If my hair got any greasier, I’d be able to stand outside on a hot day and cook breakfast on it.

I was exhausted. My back hurt. My head hurt. My eyelashes hurt.

I tried to remember when my last good night’s sleep was. It had to be when I was six months pregnant. That’s when the heartburn kicked in. Did I say heartburn? I meant boiling hot lava. Flaming acid rain. Whatever it was, it meant I had to sleep sitting up in bed while Aubrey Riverdanced on my bladder. If there was any justice on Earth, women would take the first twenty-week shift of pregnancy and men would take over for the last four-and-a-half months. But based on how a common head cold transformed my husband from a thirty-five-year-old man to a ninety-six-year-old granny with malaria, I wasn’t sure he’d make it through one day with child.

Another angry scream shot through the baby monitor.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I whispered, dabbing at my face with a towel. I stared at my tired reflection in the mirror.

When Aubrey was finally born, every ounce of throat-searing bile was (mostly) forgotten as I looked into her adorable little face covered in that weird, white marsh scum* infants are born with. I wish someone had warned me about the vernix situation. Maybe then I wouldn’t have screamed, “IS SHE A LEPER?” in front of two nurses, the doctor and a team of horrified interns. David teased me for weeks. Every time I’d hand her to him, he’d make a cross with his fingers and yell, “Unclean!”

She really was a beautiful baby. Or I thought she was. Everyone thinks their newborn is a looker when the truth is, 99.99 percent of them look like Groucho Marx.

* When you think about it, my uterus was kind of like a marsh: it was wet, dark, warm. All that was missing were the alligators.

* * *

I looked down and noticed that the pants I had slipped on in the dark featured a large hole in the crotch. A custom air vent, I rationalized.