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