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—