“Yes, but that was with work people. That doesn’t count,” I say, knowing that if we stay in, Nolan will watch TV while I put Harper to bed, an arduous, frustrating task that can take hours. I stop short of telling him that I’m desperate to have a few drinks and a grown-up evening without our daughter, in no particular order, and instead say again that I’m going to try my mother and Josie, maybe one of them is free.
“You know Josie’s going to be busy. When has she ever not had plans on a Friday night?” Nolan says, in shirtless limbo. Always in good shape, he’s even more fit than usual, gearing up for his next triathlon, his morning training conveniently conflicting with getting Harper ready for school and out the door.
I text them both just in case, but just as Nolan predicted, Josie types back immediately that she is otherwise engaged. My mom writes that she would love to, but already has plans to go to the movies with Kay, her friend from church.
“Dammit,” I grumble to myself.
“We could call the Grahams and ask them to come hang out here instead?” Nolan says.
I shake my head, feeling annoyed by the suggestion. “The house is a mess, and we have nothing to eat here.”
“So what?” he says. “We can order a pizza.”
“I don’t want to do that,” I say, thinking that I will still be the one stuck putting Harper to bed. “Besides, the Grahams don’t want to pay for a sitter for their children only so they can spend the evening with ours.”
“All right,” he says. “Well, I’m sure we can think of something else fun to do.” He gives me his little double-finger gun and wink, and although I know he’s trying to be funny, it’s also a serious suggestion on his part.
I give him a little noncommittal grunt, wondering where I’d rank sex with my husband these days—before or after putting our daughter to bed.
—
I KNOW HOW I sound. I sound like a shitty mother and wife. Or at the very least an inadequate wife and ungrateful mother—which is in stark contrast to the image I try to portray on Instagram. Hashtag happy life. Hashtag beautiful family. Hashtag blessed. Sometimes, like tonight, I find myself wondering which is more egregious, to pretend to be happy when you’re not, or to feel so consistently dissatisfied when you should be happy. My therapist, Amy, tells me not to be so hard on myself—which probably has a lot to do with why I keep going back to her. She says that everyone creates a version of her life that she wishes were true and tries to believe. In other words, everyone lies on social media, or at least puts her best foot—and photos—forward. Amy also points out that although I have a lot to be thankful for, I did lose my brother in a tragic accident that rocked my family to the core, either directly or indirectly caused my parents to divorce, and left me with a sole sibling who is some combination of selfish and self-destructive. In other words, I’m entitled to my frustration and deep-seated sadness, regardless of how many positive things have happened to me since that horrific day.
As an aside, I also appreciate Amy’s forty-something perspective that the thirties are a grind for many, and motherhood isn’t the constantly blissful journey everyone thinks it will be when they attend their pink or blue or yellow baby shower. She swears that things get easier as your kids get older and become more self-sufficient, but she also maintains that no matter what their age or yours, motherhood is hard. Really hard. Stay-at-home mothers have it rough; working mothers have it rough; and part-time working mothers, like myself, have it rough, even though the first two camps annoyingly insist that we have the best of both worlds when I think we actually have the worst of each. There. I just did it again. Bitch, bitch, bitch. And I mean that as a noun and a verb.
To be clear, I love my daughter more than anything or anyone in the world. She is the best thing I have ever done or will ever do with my life. It’s just that taking care of a small child often feels tedious to me, a fact I can admit only to Amy, the person I pay to give me one-hour increments of complete honesty. I can’t tell my husband, who labeled me unmaternal in a recent argument. I can’t tell my friends, because it would undermine my perfect Facebook fa?ade. I can’t tell my sister, who desperately wants a child of her own. And I can’t tell my mother, because I know she’d do anything to get back a few moments with her firstborn, even the kind of miserable, exhausting moments that I routinely gripe about. Besides, my mother needs me to be okay. The child she doesn’t have to worry about. The only one who hasn’t fucked up or died.