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

Title Page

Dedication

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.

It was almost impossible to believe that two years ago my mornings started with a ridiculously long shower as I got ready for work at Weber & Associates. I was a rising superstar in the marketing world. Back then, my mornings revolved around my intricately detailed makeup routine, dressing in trendy but professional skirt suits, and the vanilla latte and egg, cheese and ham croissant that I’d devour on my commute. Now breakfast consisted of whatever finger-food scraps Aubrey doesn’t eat and peanut butter on a spoon while standing up with my face in the pantry. This wasn’t how I pictured motherhood at all.

In my motherhood fantasy, I’d wake up at 7 a.m. and float into my still-sleeping baby’s designer periwinkle-and-slate nursery (with a plum accent wall—like in Real Simple’s Fall issue). Everything in the spotless, clutter-free baby sanctuary would be made by obscure Etsy artists living in the woods in Oregon, Italian designers or handmade by yours truly. You’d be able to feel the oak knots in the crib. They’d tell a story.

While my baby slept, I’d sit in her custom-made organic bamboo-and-pine rocking chair and write her a poem every day. She’d treasure these poems for her entire life and eventually turn them into songs. She’d win armfuls of Grammy Awards while I, an old but hot grandma, cheered her on from the star-studded audience. I can already see the award show camera go from her, in a beautiful gown on stage giving her acceptance speech, to me, tearfully clapping for my baby girl. She’d blow me a kiss, I’d catch it, and people around the world would be inspired by our mother-daughter connection. “How did she raise such an amazing young woman?” they’d ask themselves.

I’d wear stylish but casual clothing: white sundresses and practical but fabulous strappy Bohemian wedges. I’d save the skinny jeans for playdates.

Speaking of playdates, I’d be invited to so many of them that I’d be turning them down. “Sarah, I’d love to pop by, but I’m making organic applesauce and canning tomatoes from my garden today, sorry!”

I’d have one of those cute planners to keep all of my events straight—a pink leather-bound agenda with a matching pen that I’d keep in my fantastic diaper bag. The fantastic diaper bag that I’d never forget at home.

Aubrey would wear nothing but 100 percent organic cotton matching separates, lots of delicate vintage lace and those $60-a-pop suede booties in every color. I’d visit the farmers’ market daily and sniff loads of fresh fruit, vegetables and local honey before selecting the items that would become the rustic, delicious dinners that I would Instagram to the delight of my hundreds of thousands of followers.

My meals would be beautiful and epic. People on Facebook would stare in admiration at the photos of my homemade Bolognese with handmade pasta. I’d definitely have one of those countertop pasta-drying things that look like they’re for hanging miniature laundry.

Obviously, I’d cook while wearing seasonally themed aprons with Aubrey warm and cozy in the baby wrap I got at my shower a year ago and that I have yet to learn how to put on. David would brag to all his friends about how naturally I took to motherhood and how he always knew I’d be a great mom.

My reality? Aubrey screams me awake at 5 a.m. every morning and I’m about six months behind on the laundry that’s taking over my living room like some kind of poisonous mold.

Forget about all of the cute outfits I thought I’d be putting my firstborn in. Every day my daughter wears one of four pairs of footie pajamas. She can’t even walk and the feet are getting worn out from use. Two of them are stained: one from a diaper blowout (since when does infant poop stain?) and another from red wine (don’t judge me). I wear the same three pairs of black yoga pants and a rotating army of stretched-out tank tops that can barely contain my jiggly muffin top.

Two weeks ago in the grocery store, an elderly woman looked us up and down, shook her head and handed me $20. I wanted to yell, “We’re not homeless. I’m just too tired to care!” but she’d already turned down the baked goods aisle.

My thoughts were interrupted by another howl over the baby monitor as I hurried to pee. I finished up and washed my hands more slowly than I should have, savoring the last few moments of my day alone.

Before having Aubrey, I thought I’d be an amazing mom. I thought I’d be Emily Walker. Yes, THAT Emily Walker, the mom everyone wants to be; the famous mom blogger turned media darling who went from sharing her perfect family (including five children) and their perfect life with an audience of millions of mediocre moms to getting her own morning television show where she tells moms everywhere how to knit, craft and bake their way to a better life, all while getting to yoga class on time.

Not that I go to a yoga class. And let’s not even talk about my body. I refuse to let David see me naked. The few—and I mean few—times we’ve found ourselves in a compromising position since Aubrey was born, I insisted that the lights remained off and as much of me stayed under the covers as possible. Yeah, I’m a regular vixen.

But Emily Walker has five kids and looks incredible naked. I know because on her blog are gorgeous photos from her vacation in the Bahamas (sponsored by a sunscreen company, of course). In one of them, she’s lying on a huge yacht in a bikini that looks like a piece of dental floss. She doesn’t have a single stretchmark on her toned, tight abdomen. Not one. I only have one kid and not only can I tuck my stomach into my pants, but it also looks like a bear clawed its way down my doughy center. But who’s keeping score? Okay, I am.

Motherhood has done a number on my body. My hair has somehow become an oil slick and bone-dry at the same time. My skin is always broken out from the hormonal roller coaster I can’t seem to get off of. Last week I cried during a commercial for yeast infection cream. David looked at me like I was insane. In my defense, the mother and daughter bonding over their shared vaginal fungus really touched me.

I thought being a stay-at-home mom would be easier. But the house is a disaster. David doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the judge-y way he looks around when he gets home that he’s noticed we currently live in an upscale rattlesnake’s nest.

I’m not exactly the best home chef, either. My idea of cooking is flipping through takeout menus with a spoonful of Nutella in my mouth or throwing something together at the last minute as if I’m on one of those “race against time” cooking shows. The result is usually spaghetti or quesadillas—you know, the kind of food fourth graders eat for lunch. Basically, I’m failing.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets. I love Aubrey. I just didn’t think I’d get pregnant so fast after David and I got married. I know how babies are made, but getting knocked up on the first try was a surprise. I was equally surprised to get laid off while on maternity leave. I guess that’s what happens when a company has to tighten its belt after the CEO is caught embezzling money. I never even got to ride on his yacht. Pity. So, here I am, an accidental stay-at-home mom.

In two short years I went from being a professional thirty-two-year-old semifashionable woman who ordered cranberry martinis during happy hour and spent Friday nights hopping from fusion restaurants to invite-only “what’s the password” bars, to a thirty-four-year-old lumpy, bone-tired, hormonal mom who lives in semiclean activewear and spends Friday nights passing out at 7:48 p.m.—three minutes after I get Aubrey to sleep.

Just when I was really starting to feel sorry for myself, another impatient yelp boomed through the baby monitor. I peeked out of the bathroom into the bedroom where David had turned onto his side.

“Still pretending to be asleep, huh?” I spoke directly at him. Still nothing.

I shook my head but let him off the hook. In an hour he’d be off to work, fighting to make a name for the advertising agency he’d left his job to start four months before I decided not to find another job. I knew he was under a lot of pressure to make his company successful. If his sales skills were half as good as his early-morning acting skills, he’d have no problem at all. But in all seriousness, I was proud of him for fighting for his dream. I just wished he’d get up with the baby once in a while.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I said, as I walked toward my daughter’s bedroom. She was standing up, full of more energy than anyone should have before dawn. Her smile was contagious and I found myself cracking a slight one as I scooped her into my arms. If there was anything more delicious than a baby in footed pajamas I didn’t know what it was. I mean, ham and cheese croissants came close, but she was still cuter. Before having Aubrey I thought it was horrifying when people talked about wanting to eat up their babies, but now I totally got it.

She babbled enthusiastically as I nuzzled her cheek. My heart dissolved into warm fuzzies as she pawed at my shirt. I looked down at her sweet face and tried to memorize every curve and dimple. I may not be the world’s best mom, but gosh, how I love this little girl.

“Just so you know, when you’re ready to talk, it’s perfectly fine to call for Daddy in the morning,” I said, as we made our way downstairs and into the kitchen. I flipped the switch and blinked as the light burned my eyes. It was too early.

Coffee. Must ingest caffeine. Before becoming a mom, I loved coffee, but now I needed it to function. My body went on autopilot as I fumbled with the coffeemaker with one hand. Aubrey cooed to herself on my hip. I pressed the Start button and the machine began to gurgle.

In a few hours, my ex-coworkers would be in the main conference room brainstorming PR campaigns for a new sugar-free energy drink or sparkly nail polish over a catered breakfast, while I was still sitting in my living room trying to stay awake.

I grabbed my coffee and walked with Aubrey, still happily on my hip, into the living room. I plopped her down on the enormous play mat that dominated the room and she quickly got to work finding her favorite toys. I flipped on the television and found a comfortable spot on the couch, cradling my coffee mug in my hands. Sensing my comfort, Aubrey began to squawk angrily. I picked her up and sat her on my lap for snuggles. She immediately dove for the hot coffee in my hand. I managed to take a few urgent sips before placing it on the end table and out of her sight. I looked longingly at my warm cup of daily motivation. I’d finish it when Aubrey napped. Of course, it’d be stone-cold by then, but that’s what microwaves are for.

I heard a familiar voice on the television.

It was Emily Walker, mom blogger turned media superstar, on her highly acclaimed morning show, aptly titled The Emily Walker Show, doing a cooking segment with her latest celebrity guest.

Emily, impeccably dressed in a canary yellow ensemble, stood next to the redheaded bombshell and looked into the camera.

“Your kids are absolutely going to LOVE these butternut squash date scones!” Emily said, waving her hands enthusiastically.

“Which kids would love those? Human ones?” I said to Aubrey, as if she could understand anything I said. She blinked.

Emily held up a book. “Don’t forget to pick up Alicia Winter’s new wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, fat-free dessert cookbook! It’s in stores now!”

“I’ll get right on that,” I said sarcastically to Aubrey, who was now happily chewing on a runaway strand of my hair. I really needed to get some friends. Surely they’d appreciate my witty commentary more than an eight-month-old could.

Truth be told, I’d love to be the kind of mom who showed up to playdates with a tray of delicious, homemade treats: baby carrots cut up to look like snakes, baskets of muffins made with beet puree, and hand-churned yogurt in mini glass mason jars topped with fruit I preserved myself. The other moms would watch in astonishment as their children devoured my domestic creations. But so far I’ve been invited to exactly zero playdates. Even if I were asked, I’d probably bring a few bags of drive-through fries. Fries are a vegetable, right? They’re also vegan.

I stole another sip of my coffee and turned up the volume.

Emily was now sitting on her trademark pink EW-logoed interviewer couch, having what she called a Mama Heart to Mama Heart. It’s how she ended every episode of her show—with a few words of her own brand of wisdom.

“My mission for The Emily Walker Show has always been to inspire mothers.” The camera zoomed in tight. “I see you there, mama. You’re tired, frumpy, exhausted...”

I looked down at my stained purple sweatshirt and holey pants and glanced around the room. Were there cameras in here?

Emily narrowed her eyes dramatically. “Every day I get hundreds of emails and letters asking me how I raise my five beautiful children while running my empire, and I’m thrilled to announce that my book, Motherhood Better, comes out today. In it you will find the keys to my success and your own. Are you ready to be the mom you’ve always known you can be? Are you ready to truly enjoy motherhood?”

I found myself staring at the camera, hypnotized. She was saying all of the right things. It’s true. I had always wondered how Emily’s social media accounts were constantly full of gorgeous meals and perfectly groomed children, and boasted of her latest ventures, when the only thing I’d accomplished last week was moving my laundry pile from the bedroom floor to the recliner. I’d also figured out that a spoon half full of Nutella and half full of peanut butter dipped in powdered sugar tastes like a Reese’s cup.

“My new book, Motherhood Better, will take you from frumpy to fabulous, struggling to spectacular. It’s time to become the mother you’ve always known you could be.”

This was exactly what I needed. With that realization, I practically flew off the couch, startling Aubrey, and grabbed my computer from the dining room table. Within minutes I’d purchased the book from BookSpot, a local store downtown and opted for same day pickup. This was an emergency, after all.

I was almost shaking with excitement. This was my moment. This is exactly what I’d been waiting for. That, and I was running out of places to hide laundry.

I opened my email and was excited to see a confirmation message waiting for me.

You purchased Motherhood Better by Emily Walker.

I looked at my phone. Only four hours until the store opened. Today I will become a mother, better. A better mother? Anyway—I’ll get the book today is what I’m saying.

2 P.M.

I’d finally gotten Aubrey down for a nap and was lounging on my bed, trying not to let the two sinks full of dishes distract me from my well-deserved break. The day had been one for the record books. Everything that could have gone wrong had, and I learned some important lessons.

Lesson #1: If you forget the diaper bag at home and your baby needs changing at a bookstore, remember that you CANNOT, in fact, craft a diaper out of an old ziplock freezer bag that you found in the trunk of your car and a pair of emergency period panties from your glove compartment.

Lesson #2: When you arrive at home and see that your mother-in-law, Gloria, has popped in for a surprise visit with one of her classic six-cheese casseroles because she thinks (knows) you can’t cook and doesn’t want her David “starving to death,” don’t forget about your ziplock bag/period-panty diaper monstrosity and hand the baby to her.

Lesson #3: When your mother-in-law gasps and recoils in horror upon changing the baby and seeing your ziplock bag/period-panty diaper debacle (complete with a stained merlot mosaic of periods past), think of something clever and blasé to say rather than just standing there with your mouth open. Don’t manically yell “Yolo!” She’ll just ask what “yolo” means and you’ll sound like an idiot explaining it. Also, don’t try to cover your tracks and say that yolo is an ancient Tibetan prayer, because even though your mother-in-law doesn’t know how to call before she visits, she does know how to Google.

Lesson #4: Be more prepared. Keep the diaper bag by the door. You should be better at this by now.

What kind of people “just pop by” anyway? Perhaps my dear husband casually let his mom in on the not-so-secret secret that I’m not taking to motherhood as naturally as I thought I would. In my defense, Aubrey is only eight months old. Eight months into any job isn’t really enough time to become an expert.*

* Not that I’m calling motherhood a job. It’s a blessing. Really, it is. Such a blessing. I’m blessed. Truly. #soblessed

Despite my sweet mother-in-law going on and on about how motherhood is an instinct, I can’t be the only newish mom having a bit of a time finding her groove.

To be fair, I had very little preparation for this whole motherhood thing. Before Aubrey, the only newborns I’d ever held were my sister Joy’s kids, the last of whom, my niece, was born just a month before I joined #TeamMom. That’s a day I’ll never forget, and not just because my niece was so adorable. Joy had just dropped the enormous bomb that she was giving her baby girl the name we’d both loved, I mean LOVED, as in we’d named every doll and teddy bear Ella since we were four and seven. When we found out that we were both pregnant, we even met at a coffee shop and decided that neither of us would take the name. So when the nurse said, “Isn’t Ella darling?” I almost hit the ground.

“Don’t be childish, Ashley,” was Joy’s response as she lay looking like a freaking goddess in her hospital bed. She was probably the first woman there to give birth in a $200 custom nursing gown. It was gorgeous. Pink apple print with cute little yellow blossoms.

It wasn’t just the gown. Joy always looked fantastic. Her hair was even prettily tousled like she’d been boating all day rather than pushing six pounds and seven ounces of person out of her vagina.

When I told her I wasn’t being childish and brought up the conversation in the café, Mom chimed in to defend her like she always does.

“Stop it, Ashley. Your sister just had a baby, for goodness sake. And she really does look like an Ella.”

I had Aubrey one month later.

I love Ella and, of course, her brother, my three-year-old nephew, George, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little every time I hear her name.

“Aubrey is a gorgeous name,” Joy gushed when she came to visit me in the birthing center. Joy and Mom were dead against my giving birth to my first outside of a hospital. In our typical Easton style, they never actually told me this. They just sent me every birthing center/natural-birth-gone-wrong horror story ever published while I was pregnant.

So maybe I did feel a little smug when Aubrey was born all warm and perfect in my hippie den aka birthing center. That is, until Joy spoke.

“You really are brave, Ashley. I never could have rolled the dice with my baby.”

Once again, Mom backed her up. “Yes, Ashley, you’re very lucky.”

Lucky? They acted like I’d run blindfolded across six lanes of traffic while balancing my baby on my head rather than just given birth in the #1 birthing center in the nation, directly across the street from a top-rated, fully equipped hospital.

Before Aubrey was born I’d decided that I’d be one of those all-natural moms who made their own peanut butter, wore their baby 24/7 in one of those slings and breast-fed well into toddlerhood. Giving birth to Aubrey in a birthing center was just what I needed to catapult me into my new, organic lifestyle.

But my earth-mother adrenaline rush lasted until about four days after Aubrey was born, when my milk didn’t come in. After Aubrey lost two pounds, even my “fight the man” midwife had to admit that something was very wrong.

“You might just be one of those women,” she said to me in a hushed whisper, as if we were undercover spies trading government secrets. “One of those women who don’t make milk.”

“BUT YOU SAID THEY WERE ONE IN FIVE MILLION!” I cried, pushing my raw nipple into Aubrey’s screaming mouth. “I HAD A NATURAL BIRTH!”

Two lactation consultants, bloodwork, a dozen delicious but ineffective lactation cookies, two boxes of lactation tea and a rented breast pump later, I gave in and bought my first tin of failure powder. That’s what a mom from my online breastfeeding forum calls formula. Failure powder. For failures like me. Did I mention that Emily Walker made so much breast milk for her last baby, Sage, that she donated gallons to her local milk bank?

Joy was as helpful as she always is. “I’d totally pump for Aubrey, but I’m making just enough for Ella as it is. Sorry.” I could tell she really was sorry, but it didn’t help with the feeling of crushing disappointment. The studies that go around Facebook every fifteen minutes about how babies who aren’t breast-fed grow up with dragon scales covering their entire bodies didn’t help.

Eight months later I still hate myself just a little every time I scoop that white powder into the bottle. Formula. I’m a formula mom. This wasn’t how I saw it all happening. It’s not that I think formula is evil; I just always pictured myself breastfeeding under a willow at the park, its leaves gently swaying in the warm breeze, onlookers stealing admiring glances at me. Ask me how many admiring glances I get whipping out a nine-ounce bottle at Starbucks. ZERO. One mom even asked—with tears in her eyes, no less—if she could breastfeed my baby for me. As if Aubrey is some malnourished third-world baby on television with flies buzzing around her emaciated body. I may have lied and said that she’s allergic to human milk.

Oh, and we stopped using the million-dollar-a-can organic formula blend when Aubrey was three months old. Now she’s on the cheap brand stuff. She’s the only eight-month-old I know with zero teeth—probably from all of the trace minerals she’s missing from my malfunctioning mammary glands. Formula. When she drops out of community college, we’ll all know why.

Yesterday, Emily Walker posted a photo of herself breastfeeding her eighteen-month-old in front of the Eiffel Tower. She’s doing her show live from Paris for her Motherhood Better book tour, and I’m sitting in funky pajamas trying to remember the last time I shaved my armpits.

Back to the lessons I learned today. So in all of the “confusion” (shorthand for poopy-diaper-ziplock-bag-period-panty-replacement among us moms) I left my copy of Motherhood Better in the bookstore bathroom. I called and they said my copy had been thrown away (an employee complained that its proximity to the baby changing area was unhygienic) but they’re giving me another one free of charge. David is picking it up on his way home from work. I asked him to pick up dinner, too. I’m exhausted from a day thinking about all the ways I’m screwing up his child, and the fridge is practically empty other than chardonnay, string cheese and almost-rotten produce.

It’s not that I don’t want to run to the store for groceries when Aubrey wakes up, it’s just that leaving the house feels like more trouble than it’s worth.

If I could ask the entire world one question, it would be: Why does it seem like people hate moms so much? Before anyone could accuse me of overreacting, I’d point out my first piece of evidence: the size of parking spots. Last time I was at the grocery store, as I squeezed my eight-months-postpartum body between millimeters of steel like a human panini, I had to wonder whether whoever paints those lines either...

Has never seen a human family before.

—or—

Despises mothers with the heat of a thousand diaper rashes.

How hard would it be to paint the white lines two inches farther apart? Would these mom-hater paint despots rather we go around scraping their BMW two-seaters with our minivan doors?

Is it deliberate fat shaming? Yes, I’ve only lost seven pounds of baby weight (which is weird, because the baby weighed eight pounds, two ounces), but we can’t all be celebrity moms who go straight from hospital gowns to string bikinis.

And unlike those magical Hollywood moms, I didn’t have a personal chef on call to make me macrobiotic, paleo, organic, fat-free, sugar-free, carb-free (taste-free?) meals every day.

It probably doesn’t help that the closest thing I get to doing sit-ups is lying on the living room floor lifting my head for sips of Shiraz, but a girl’s gotta live a little. And there’s no way I could quit gluten. Do they know how many carbs it takes to stay awake when you have a baby who sleeps about fourteen minutes a night? A lot. Cutting carbs would make me a bad mother and I have to put my child first.

I got up and made my way into the kitchen, savoring the silence of nap time. I browsed the pantry for a few seconds before grabbing a jar of chunky peanut butter. After selecting a spoon from the dishwasher, I helped myself to a heaping mountain of peanut-buttery delight.

“I really should exercise,” I said to no one in particular, my mouth full of sticky goodness.

Last week Emily had a celebrity trainer on her show. She showed the audience how to lie on their backs and bench press their babies while wearing a hot pink sports bra and matching designer leggings. I was tempted to get on my living room carpet and give it a shot, but I had a premonition of Aubrey puking partially digested milk into my hair. I smelled bad enough without being doused in baby vinaigrette.

I took another spoonful of peanut butter. Peanuts have protein, right? Protein is important.

Back to the ridiculous parking spaces. Every time I parked and had to squeeze my jiggly post-baby stomach between vehicles it was just another reminder that I’m not where I should be, body-wise. It’s hard enough getting out of the house with an eight-month-old who only poops when we’re in stores.

Which led me to...

Piece of Evidence That The World Hates Moms #2: Public Changing Tables.

Nobody’s asking for a Four Seasons-inspired changing room with baby bidets and Egyptian cotton, rosewater-scented wipes individually handed to me by a gloved bathroom attendant, but three days ago I almost gagged changing Aubrey on a sticky, crusty monstrosity with broken straps, soiled with what I HOPED was dried prune baby food. I did my best to clean the biohazard with wipes and hand sanitizer, but really?

Sometimes it feels like moms are supposed to be invisible in society. Seen but not heard. We’re supposed to quietly and quickly go about our task of raising perfectly mannered, groomed Gap babies who speak four languages before they’re six without distracting the rest of the world from their important work.

I took one more heaping spoonful of peanut butter before replacing the lid and closing the pantry door. How nice would it be to live in a world that actually considers mothers? In Sweden, everyone takes care of everyone else’s babies. Seriously. I read somewhere that when parents go to cafés or restaurants, they just leave their strollers outside by the door on the sidewalk, knowing that if the baby cries or needs help, passersby will jump right in and breastfeed or whatever. That sure beats feeling like every peep your baby makes in public is a capital crime.

I’ve watched way too many episodes of Law & Justice to put my faith in a stranger on the street, but it kind of sounds like paradise. The last (and only) time we took Aubrey out to eat, I ended up standing outside the restaurant bouncing her around while she screamed and tried to buck out of my arms like a wild pony. I ended up eating my cold eggplant parm out of a Styrofoam box in the kitchen at midnight. Good times.

My train of thought was interrupted by a baby yell. Was that Aubrey? I listened again. Nothing. Lately, I’d been experiencing phantom cries—thinking I heard Aubrey make noise when she hadn’t. David thinks I’m losing it. He’s not wrong.

Oh, wait, there was that sound again. Definitely Aubrey. I guess the dishes will have to wait.

9:30 P.M.

I was lying in bed next to David, who was sleeping soundly. Instead of joining him in dreamland, I had Emily’s book propped open with one hand, and my phone’s flashlight in the other, illuminating the page.

So far, the book was everything I expected. It only took half a chapter to make me feel like crap. Inspired crap, but crap.

Motherhood can be a joyful experience if you allow it to be. Too many moms spend their days in tense anger or regret, which is then energetically transmitted to their children.

Good to know. I’ve been frying Aubrey’s heart via my toxic gamma rays.

As a mother, you are the gatekeeper of your child’s health. It’s up to you whether their bodies are filled with preservatives and chemicals, or nourished with homemade broths and fresh-from-the-oven grain-free breads.

I ran downstairs, flipped on the light and grabbed the Funny O’s that Aubrey gobbles up from her high chair every morning. I turned the box around to read the label.

Whole grain oats. That’s good. Oats grow in fields under sunlight and in the fresh air.

Modified corn starch. Okay, well corn is a vegetable. Modified. I tried not to picture Aubrey growing an extra hand out of her forehead.

Sugar. Salt.

Are babies supposed to eat this? I vowed to myself to spend the extra dollar on the organic ones next time. I guess the book was working. Sitting down on the couch I continued reading.

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 Pinterest 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 over 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.

David stepped out of the bathroom in his blue-and-white striped pajama pants and white tee and saw me grinning.

“You met this woman where, again?” he asked, sliding into bed next to me.

I frowned. “David. This is how moms meet,” I said, trying to sound like I’d done this before. “If I get any weird vibes or if she sacrifices a lamb on the front lawn, I’ll get right out of there. I’ll go back for Aubrey the next day,” I teased.

David smiled and slithered his way up the bed toward me like a crocodile. He was in a great mood today after winning a bid to handle the PR for LuxSpecs, a high-end line of sunglasses.

He reached for me and wrapped his arms around me, massaging my back.

My danger alarm went off, and I gave him a quick shoulder squeeze.

“Watcha doing there, buddy?” I asked.

He purred in my neck. I knew exactly what he was doing, but seeing as how I’d just gotten Aubrey to bed fifteen minutes ago and hadn’t had a chance to shower since...she was born, not to mention spending a day being drooled and spit up on, I felt about as sexy as an ingrown toenail. We really should have sex soon, it had been too long. Just not tonight.

“David, David,” I said, backing away from his neck nuzzles. “I haven’t showered in forever. I feel like a moldy dishcloth. Rain check?” I felt terrible. Minus-twenty wife points.

“Awwww,” he said, and kissed me tenderly. His lips were so soft. Those lips. I loved them the minute I first kissed him, all those years ago in the rain outside of our office building. We’d been friends for three years and neither of us knew that the other had been harboring feelings until that kiss.

I kissed him back and sighed, remembering the simpler days when my hair was clean and we could spend an entire Saturday morning snuggling in bed.

He pulled me into a spooning position and began exploring my body with his hands. I yelped self-consciously when they grazed my stomach. I still couldn’t bear him feeling the loose kangaroo pouch Aubrey had left me with. Hot shame shot down my spine and I covered my abdomen with my hands, protecting it from his.

He sensed my discomfort and placed his hands over mine. “Hey,” he said, in the most gentle voice I’ve ever heard him use. He touched my face and whispered into my ear. “You’re beautiful. All of you.”

Butterflies danced around my stomach and I felt so moved, tears welled up in my eyes. I loved this man. I turned toward his warm body, gazed into his brown eyes. He meant it. He really did think I was beautiful. I kissed him and almost heard the rain from that evening so many years ago hitting the pavement.

Thirty seconds later we were breaking our dry streak. It was fantastic—it always is, even with me insisting that the lights stay off lest my jiggles be seen. Afterward he hugged me tight, as if afraid to lose me again to the world of mother.

“I miss you,” he whispered into my ear. Tears sprang into my eyes again. Dang hormones. I missed me, too.

I wished I could promise him that I’d be this person, this loving, giving, sexy person again tomorrow night or the next night, but I couldn’t. I tried to squash the feelings of guilt swirling around my psyche.

I kissed his cheek. “I know.”

He turned over and fell fast asleep. Normally I would, too, but I couldn’t quit my thoughts.

I tried to think about something else. My very first playdate. Tomorrow.

I decided to dress Aubrey in her pale pink jumper and heather-gray top with the matching gray booties. She looked like a baby model in that ensemble. It was made by some fancy Italian designer. Joy gave it to me as her way of apologizing for #BabyNameGate.

I’d actually tried to invite Joy. After all, Emily Walker wouldn’t be worried about Joy stealing her friends. Emily Walker would be secure in her friend-getting abilities and say, “The more the merrier!”

But, of course, Joy had to get all weird. “You met this woman while discount shopping and are going to her house?”

You’d think I was taking Aubrey to an abandoned meat warehouse at midnight. Classic Joy. She decided against coming, which was fine by me. Anyway, she had tons of friends from her scrapbooking club, book club and cookie swap. I’d asked if I could join the cookie club once, but all of the cookies have to be homemade so it wasn’t a good fit.

I wiggled in bed a little, getting myself comfortable.

I was almost asleep when I heard David say, “Do you smell yogurt?”

Thursday, January 24, 9 A.M.

Isabel’s party was in an hour and we were ready.

I texted Isabel and told her that though I’d invited my sister she couldn’t make it and I’d be coming alone. She’s so sweet, she offered to talk to Joy directly but I let her know it’d be a lost cause.

Aubrey looked absolutely adorable! I need to submit her photo to modeling agencies, seriously. I showered, brushed my teeth, and put on foundation, mascara AND lipstick. I was wearing a dress that fit like a (slightly tight) glove and I felt incredible. I should do this every day! I didn’t have time to make the Lemon Poppyseed Cake, so I would be picking up a dozen doughnuts on the way there. Wish me luck!

11 P.M.

Well.

I’m not even sure where to start.

Aubrey and I arrived at 10:15, just a bit late. There was a long line at the drive-through for the doughnuts.

When I got to Isabel’s house I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a woman with red hair holding a clipboard. She asked if I was Ashley, scribbled something down and gave me a name tag with my name already on it. That didn’t immediately strike me as odd. I’d never been on a playdate. Maybe there are so many moms that they wear name tags when getting to know one another.

She led me to the living room where eight other moms with babies in their laps and toddlers walking around aimlessly were watching a video on the large flatscreen. The woman showed me to the only seat left available. At that point, I wondered what we were doing, but I saw Isabel smiling at me from the left of the television screen and figured this was some kind of chick flick movie time.

Then the film started. Wait no, the INFOMERCIAL started.

A woman in a bikini wearing some kind of linen girdle popped up on the screen. “Are you ready to feel sexy again?”

That’s when I started to feel like an idiot.

“In just three hours you’ll feel the YES Wrap start to shrink your belly fat and trim your waistline! Get ready for a lean, mean tummy! I love my YES Wraps and you will, too!”

I watched in stunned horror for the next twenty minutes as women mummified their abdomens while animated fat cells floated out of their bodies. Finally the video went to black and Isabel walked to the front of the room holding a green and white box with YES Wrap emblazoned on the sides.

“Does anyone have any questions?”

I knew I shouldn’t have raised my hand, but I couldn’t help it.

“Is this the playdate?” I asked.

Isabel fake smiled at me. “Absolutely! I’ve invited all of you here to make some friends and learn about a product that has helped moms around the world lose weight naturally.”

I went on. “Right. So you invited me—no, targeted me—because you think I’m fat?”

The fake smile didn’t fade but her eyes flickered.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t target you. I shop at BabyOutlet all the time with my nephew.”

At this point I may have snapped. “HE’S NOT EVEN YOUR SON? YOU’RE NOT EVEN A MOM?”

I don’t know what came over me. The humiliation turned into hot, searing anger.

“I MAY NOT HAVE A TIGHT STOMACH BUT AT LEAST I’M NOT A LIAR. YOU CAN STICK YOUR WRAPS UP YOUR—” then I noticed the kids in the room “—BUTT!”

Isabitch started to speak but I ripped off my name tag and a patch of my dress at the same time, grabbed Aubrey’s car seat and stormed out, but not before scooping up my box of doughnuts. I ate five of them this afternoon and another two after dinner. So much for a lean, mean tummy.

Joy texted to ask how the playdate went. I said it was a blast. She wants to come to the next one.

Just my luck that when a (fake) mom wants to get to know me it’s because she thinks I could stand to lose a few pounds and she wants to make a few bucks off me in the process.

FML.

Friday, January 25, 10 A.M.

Visualize what you want out of your mommy life. Just because you’ve had kids doesn’t mean you can’t live the reality of your dreams. My five children, beautiful husband and I take two tropical beach vacations a year thanks to the power of intention.

—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

I was shaking off the predatory playdate. I needed to move on. I needed to put my energy elsewhere.

Wishes For My Fairy Godmother.

 - Take 25lbs off of my body. Not boobs or butt, please, and not via some playdate marketing scam

 - Give them to Suzy Wexler (kidding)

 - Make sure Aubrey grows up to be happy, healthy and safe (move that to the top)

 - Make me a great housewife

 - World peace (move that to second place)

 - End famine (move this up, too)

 - Delete Facebook.com

 - Pass a law that all boxes of diapers should be accompanied with a Buy One Get One Free coupon for a bottle of wine

 - Make me a nicer wife

 - Remove all calories from wine but keep taste intact

 - Organize my house

Impossible Goal of the Day: Improve my grocery shopping.

Speaking of the power of intention, I ran to the market today and actually took a list with me.

Grocery List

Kale (For Emily Walker’s famous kale, quinoa, and fat-free feta salad with pomegranate vinaigrette.)

Quinoa.

Fat-free feta (Even though fat-free cheese should be illegal.)

One pomegranate.

Blueberries.

Radishes.

Organic milk (In Motherhood Better, Emily says regular milk can cause toddlers to go through puberty.)

Eggs.

Flour.

Butter.

Cream of tartar (For baking, because I’m going to start doing this any minute now.)

Cherries.

Apples.

Celery.

Chicken.

Oats.

Toilet paper.

Cheese.

Tomatoes.

Onions.

Red peppers.

Here’s what I bought:

Kale (For rotting in the fridge. Let’s be real—I’m never going to make that salad.)

Quinoa (I have no idea how to cook this. Is it rice? Is it pasta? Nobody knows.)

A pomegranate (For watching dry out in the fruit bowl over the next several weeks.)

I didn’t buy the fat-free feta. It felt wrong.

Organic milk.

Eggs.

Cookie dough.

Honey Nut Cinnamon Crunch cereal.

A pound cake.

Toilet paper.

Gum.

Sugar-free fake strawberry poison liquid drink mix (for weight loss.)

6-pack glazed doughnuts.

Hot dogs (for snacking.)

Frozen Tater Tots.

Apples.

Cherries.

Strawberries.

Frozen onion rings.

Tortilla chips (for unexpected guests.)

Nacho cheese dip (also for guests.)

3 tank tops.

2 pairs black pants.

Running shoes.

Workout DVD.

Water bottle.

Ice cream.

Someone told me they named it “pound cake” because it contains a pound of butter. I prefer to think it’s just honest labeling: you gain a pound per slice. But on the bright side, butter contains milk, which contains calcium, so in a small way, pound cake is helping fortify my bones. I also always eat pound cake with strawberries, which contain minerals and vitamin C.

Confession: I hadn’t showered in four days and I was kind of okay with it. That’s what deodorant is for, right? Right now, I had six layers of Lady Smells Bad antiperspirant on my underarms. It’s strong enough for a man but pH balanced for a mom who can’t find the time to wash her privates.

I smelled like a cross between sheets that were put away wet and very expensive cheese.

I checked my bank statement after this “grocery” shop, and do you know what stood out? Every third line was either for vanilla lattes or Burger Central. The only two food groups I consumed were caffeine and fast food. It wasn’t my fault, though. Junk food and caffeine were all that were keeping me going. I needed these treats to make it through the day. I didn’t get to sleep anymore, there was no “me” time, I didn’t have friends—the value menu, sweet caffeinated beverages and wine were currently pleasure central and I would not apologize for it. My pants might, though, because they were stretched to capacity.

PS: Emily would announce the twelve Motherhood Better Bootcamp winners on her show in a couple of days. She said they received over 7,000 entries. Please fairy godmother, come through for me.

11 P.M.

Motherhood is an ashram; our religion is love, diaper changes and sleepless nights. This begins with pregnancy. Speak to and dance with your unborn baby every day—preferably to music that features either harps or Tibetan gongs.

—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better

Fun fact: Did you know that some women take their placenta home with them after giving birth? Some send it away to be freeze-dried into capsules and others eat it raw, like sashimi...supposedly it helps balance out the hormones and make you feel like a normal person again faster.

I was on the Mommy Chat online message board complaining about how tired and emotional I always am, as one does on a Friday night post baby, and someone asked if I’d eaten mine. I said no, and she responded with, “That explains everything.”

Really? So motherhood would be easier for me if I’d just cooked up the afterbirth like Bolognese and served it over linguini with a side of garlic bread?

Joy’s neighbor buried her placenta in their backyard under a tree. If you bury a placenta under an apple tree, are the fruits then an apple/placenta hybrid? If you bury it in a vineyard, would the wine have hints of afterbirth?

Sommelier in a fancy restaurant: “This full-bodied pinot grigio hails from Napa Valley. It was aged in maple oak barrels. You’ll notice hints of elderberry and subtle notes of the placenta of a seven-pound six-ounce child.”

Maybe I should have kept my placenta. The birthing center offered, but between figuring out how to install the car seat, heal my broken vagina and oh, yeah, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that a human baby was coming home with me, I’d felt like I had enough on my plate (no pun intended).

I was fascinated by the thing, though.

It was way bigger than I thought it would be. In my mind I imagined a pork chop but it was more like a blobby T-bone steak. It had all kinds of veins on it. An old high school friend on Facebook dipped her wet, bloody placenta into red paint and threw it against a canvas. The art now hangs in her family room.

No comment.

If I had taken my placenta, what would I have brought it home in? A freezer bag? Do they put it in a to-go box like restaurant leftovers? Wrap it in foil or maybe drop it into a Styrofoam box complete with utensils, and salt and pepper packets?

Mom to nurse: “Can I have this wrapped up? I’m taking it with me.”

There was a whole section of the Mommy Chat website, I was discovering now, dedicated to placenta recipes. Smoothies, cakes, even stir fry. STIR FRY. Bok choy, onions, bean sprouts and thinly sliced placenta. Maybe a little Chianti on the side?

This was way too much for me. I should go to bed.

The contestants chosen for the Motherhood Better Bootcamp program would be announced tomorrow live on the show. If I hear my name I am going to absolutely freak.

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.”

“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. But 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.

I get the feeling that sometimes David thinks I’m being dramatic about how exhausting this all is. “Just get more organized.” That’s like telling someone who’s drowning to simply learn the backstroke.

No, I’m not digging trenches all day, but motherhood is draining. I can’t nail down exactly why it’s so hard. Changing a diaper in itself isn’t difficult. Neither is feeding Aubrey or taking her on a walk.

I think what makes being a mom so hard is that it never stops. It just keeps going in perpetual motion. It’s a cycle with no end. The days of the week don’t mean anything to me. I don’t punch out. I’m never “off.” David comes home at the end of a hard day and has a sense of completion. He kicks off his shoes, throws his socks anywhere but the laundry basket, opens a beer, and sits on his recliner and plays with Aubrey. I never have that moment because I’m never done. Even when Aubrey goes down for the night, I stay on alert. She could wake up at any time for any reason. Teething. A cold. A wet diaper. I’m always in a heightened state of awareness.

There’s no paycheck as a sign of a job well done. No pats on the back from a manager. It just keeps going on and on, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

I pulled out my phone again and couldn’t resist sending a quick text to David. Almost done?

A few seconds later my phone beeped with a new message. PR crisis with the Loeman account. Don’t wait up. Love u.

No problem. Love u too, I texted back, before returning my phone to my pocket.

I felt my eyes start to well up with unexpected tears. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked, brushing them away.

I thought about calling Joy, but remembered that Sunday night is her book—i.e., wine and chatting—club. Even if I had a babysitter, her friends are the organized, always dressed perfectly, “Oh, look, I made organic blueberry muffins” type, and I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.

I’d call Mom but she’s an hour and a half away, and hearing my tone would just worry her.

The idea popped into my head before I had a chance to stop it.

Gloria?

Was I desperate enough for company that I’d call the mother-in-law who once referred to my three-bean casserole as a “cute experiment”?

Yes. Yes, I was.

I stood up and switched Aubrey to the other hip. She squawked in protest.

Dialing the number, I tried not to notice that my fingers were shaking. I held the phone to my ear.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Okay, she’s not there, I should just hang—

“Hello?” Gloria’s voice caught me off guard.

“Gloria. Hi. Hi. Um. It’s me, Ashley. Hi. Um...”

“Ashley? Is that you?”

I tried to remember why I was calling.

“Hi, Gloria. Yes, it’s me. I’m just calling because... I just wanted... I wanted to see if you were free to pop by for dinner?” I bit my lip.

The line was silent.

“Tonight? Ashley, I...”

“If you’re busy, I totally understand. I just ordered Chinese food, David’s working, Aubrey won’t let me put her down and...”

To my horror a lump started to rise in my throat blocking my words. New tears flooded down my cheeks without warning. I let out a heaving sob.

“Ashley? Dear, are you crying? What’s wrong?” Gloria sounded more alarmed than I’d ever heard her.

“I’m just tired. And a little lonely. I’m so sorry...”

Gloria’s voice was steady. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

She must have flown down the highway because eight minutes later there was a knock at the door. I’d had just enough time to splash some water on my face and pull my hair into a ponytail.

I opened it, and to my absolute surprise there was Gloria, in full makeup and hair with a black evening gown under an unbuttoned black faux-fur coat.

I gasped. She looked amazing. “Gloria! I...”

Gloria walked into the house and closed the door behind her. “I was getting ready to go to the theater with some friends from the community center but clearly you need me here.”

“I had no idea! I wish you hadn’t...”

Gloria waved in front of her face.

“Nonsense. I know a breakdown when I hear one. Tell me what’s going on, at once.”

In one sweeping motion, Gloria draped her coat over a dining room chair and took Aubrey from me. It was such a glorious relief to have my arms free. It was then I noticed that she was holding a bottle of red wine. My heart soared.

Gloria stared at me. “Well? Are you going to get us a couple of glasses?”

Ten minutes later we were sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by takeout boxes. Gloria placed a chunk of white rice in Aubrey’s waiting mouth. I took a sip of my wine.

She cleared her throat. “So, if I understand correctly, you’re exhausted, tired of being alone with Aubrey all of the time, you miss David, wish he’d help you more and want to lose twenty pounds but are unwilling to exercise.”

I stared at the ceiling trying to remember if I’d missed anything.

“That’s about it, yes.” I nodded furiously, taking another long sip. “It’s just that, I thought motherhood would be more fulfilling. I’m here with Aubrey every day, watching her scoot around on the floor or holding her all over the house—and there’s nowhere I’d rather be—but I’m bored. I have no one to talk to. David is busy with work. I’m just...”

“You’re just a mom,” cut in Gloria. “You feel useless and essential at the same time. You feel like everyone is doing a better job than you and that nobody understands what you’re going through.”

I stared at Gloria with my mouth agape.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

Gloria reached her chopsticks into the Kung Pao chicken and popped a bite into her mouth.

“Dear. We all felt like that.” She sipped her wine. “David was the first baby I’d ever held. I remember being so surprised when the nurse let us take him home after I had him. I was terrified. Back then, dads made the money and moms did all of the child raising, so I was completely on my own. Then, when David Senior passed away when the kids were just ten and eight...well...I was really on my own.”

I looked into my wine. I tried to imagine what that must have been like, raising two children on your own while navigating your own personal tragedy and theirs.

Gloria coughed. “But do you know how I got through it?”

I took a sip of wine. “You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps?”

Gloria scoffed. “No. Vodka. One shot every day at 5 p.m. on the dot.”

We dissolved into laughter. I couldn’t believe I was actually bonding with my mother-in-law, who only an hour earlier I thought didn’t much care for me.

Gloria picked up a stringy piece of chicken with her fingers and placed it in Aubrey’s waiting mouth. “Ashley, there’s no way around it. Motherhood is hard. And you young moms put more pressure on yourselves than we ever did, with your crafts and your activities. Do you know what we called crafts when David was young? Chores. We didn’t play with our kids, we sent them outside. All day. They’d only come back in when the streetlights came on. You moms have it different. You’re expected to be on 24/7 and look good doing it. My advice is this. Stop being so hard on yourself. And drink more vodka.”

I giggled again, this time with a mouthful of noodles.

Gloria and I watched as Aubrey gummed the chicken.

“When are you going to get some teeth, baby girl?” Gloria teased.

I shrugged.

Aubrey began to fuss and I realized it was almost her bath time.

I stood up. “I should get her ready for bed. Feel free to keep eating. I’ll bring her out after her bath.”

Gloria stood and held Aubrey close. “Absolutely not. This is your time. Put your feet up and eat your dinner. I’ll put her down to bed tonight.”

I was speechless. I blinked back the wetness that was rapidly rising behind my eyes.

“Thank you, Gloria. For everything. Thank you for coming tonight.”

Gloria smiled and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re welcome. I know I’m not your mom, and I know you wish she lived closer, but I’m here for you. Remember what I said. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself, and don’t forget...”

“The vodka,” we said together.

Gloria kept her word and didn’t leave until Aubrey was breathing heavily, her chest rising steadily. We stood together, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law in the darkened doorway, and just watched her, splayed out in her pink bunny sleeper.

I peeked over at Gloria, and for the first time wondered if I’d gotten her all wrong. She had come through for me.

As we walked down the stairs I felt the need to say something. I needed to cement this moment in history as the turning point in our relationship.

She was putting on her coat when I cleared my throat.

“Gloria, I just wanted to say thank you...thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said, slipping her arm into her enormous fur coat. “I’m actually glad you called. From now on, whenever David is working late, I’ll be right here with you.”

What?

She continued. “Don’t worry, I’ll get David’s schedule directly from him so you don’t even need to call next time. I’ll pop right over.”

I tried to keep my mouth affixed in smile formation. “That’s...great, Gloria. Okay. Thank you.”

What had I gotten myself into?

When Gloria left, I sank onto the couch and opened up my phone, hoping to see a text from David. It was already 8 p.m.

Nothing. I clicked through to Instagram and pulled up Emily Walker’s page.

She’d just posted a photo of herself with the twelve moms in Motherhood Better Bootcamp and their kids. They were standing in the lobby of her New York office, a gaggle of excited mothers, babies in strollers and a few older children. I’ve seen her office plenty of times on her Instagram; it’s baby pink and white, and has silver accents. She calls the lobby “the Pavilion” and has posted loads of photos of her two youngest children, Sage and Willow, eighteen months and three years, crawling around on the Shibori Jasmine wood floors next to celebrities, chefs and athletes. The moms all looked so happy in their pink shirts monogramed with Emily’s EW logo in white calligraphy.

I wasn’t jealous at all. No really, good for them.

Maybe I should make myself a T-shirt for Operation Perfect-ish Mom. No, that’s just pathetic. And it means more laundry.

I sat on the couch and pulled out Motherhood Better.

Too many moms depend on alcohol to relax and let off steam. I prefer yoga and sunbathing.

I took a long sip of wine. I was about to turn the page when the home phone rang.

“Dang!” I hissed, running toward the kitchen receiver. I’d forgotten to put it on silent for the night. What if it woke up Aubrey?

I skidded into the kitchen and breathlessly picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I said, annoyed.

“Is this Ashley Keller?” a woman’s voice asked.

Oh, no, was this about my credit card?

“Um, no... I’m...her nanny...may I take a message?”

“Yes, this is Rebecca Anderson, assistant to Emily Walker.”

I dropped the phone. Or threw it, rather. Rebecca Anderson? Emily Walker? I had to be dreaming. This was a dream.

I ran over to the sink where I’d thrown the phone and picked it up.

“I’m so sorry. Um, Ashley actually just walked through the door. Let me get her. One moment, please.” I put the phone down on the counter, and with my heart beating out of my chest, tiptoed over to the kitchen table. I then stomped over to the counter, pretending I was just entering the room.

“Hello? Ashley Keller speaking,” I said, trying to sound casual even though my voice cracked.

At this point, my heart was pounding so loudly I was afraid she could hear it.

“Hello, Ashley. This is Rebecca Anderson, assistant to Emily Walker of The Emily Walker Show. I’ll get right to the point. I’m calling you today because a spot in the Motherhood Better Bootcamp just opened up and you are next on the list.”

I think I passed out. She kept talking but I didn’t hear anything she said. At one point the line went quiet.

“Hello? Are you there? Can you do it?”

“YES, YES, I CAN DO IT. YES, PLEASE!” I scream-whispered into the receiver.

I still can’t believe any of this happened. Turns out, one of the moms was a “dog mommy” and didn’t have a human child, which got her disqualified.

I’m in. I’m actually in. I missed the kick-off party at Emily Walker’s studios, but the program officially starts tomorrow so I didn’t miss anything!

I slid down to the kitchen floor. It was happening. I was in.

“Hello? Are you there?” Rebecca’s voice spoke through the receiver.

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” I said, struggling to compose myself.

“As a member of the Motherhood Better Bootcamp, you’re required to attend weekly video chats with Emily Walker and the rest of the team. You missed the introductory one, but the first real chat is tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.”

“Uh-huh,” I responded, brilliantly. I felt like I was in a dream. Could I be dreaming? I looked around the kitchen at the empty takeout boxes. No, if I were dreaming my kitchen would be cleaner.

Rebecca kept talking. “In six weeks, you’ll be flown out to the gorgeous Napa Valley in northern California for the closing reception and a special taping of The Emily Walker Show. The $100,000 grand prize winner will be announced live. Is all of this something you can do?”

“Yes. I can do this,” I said, trying not to float away.

“Great. I’ll send the details to your email shortly.”

“Okay, thank you, Rebecca. Please hug Emily for me.” Did I just say that?

“I, um, okay. Goodbye.” The phone clicked off.

I sat there on the living room floor trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Tomorrow I would talk to Emily Walker face-to-face. Tomorrow was the first day of my new life.

Thank you, fairy godmother.