We hadn’t had this challenge for twenty-four hours and some of the moms had already posted updates.
Tonight after our son went to bed I surprised my husband with chocolate-dipped strawberries that I’d made that afternoon during naptime. He was absolutely delighted and, after the evening we just had, so am I.—Samantha Davidson, mom of 2-year-old Henry
Girls! My hubby and I are about to hit the town and have a date night! I picked up a strappy red number and he made reservations at my favorite Italian restaurant. We’re definitely making this a weekly thing. Can’t wait!—Kimmie Reardon, mom of four
Strappy red number? The closest thing to a strappy red number I’d worn since Aubrey was born was when I wore a pair of black tennis shoes with red laces.
I thought these women were supposed to be underachievers, like me.
“These moms are frauds!” I whispered angrily, shutting my laptop with more force than necessary.
I needed to think of something and fast. Tapping out on the second challenge was not an option, especially when this program meant everything to my whole family.
I opened my computer again and began to type.
Hi ladies! I’m thrilled to see all of you doing so well. #SexyMamas. I had a busy day of yogurt-making, but I can’t wait to start this challenge tomorrow! Get ready, hubby!—Ashley Keller, mom of one
So maybe I stretched the truth a little on the whole “yogurt-making” part, but it’s not all false. The yogurt cultures on my sweatshirt must have multiplied throughout the day due to my body heat, so technically I did make yogurt.
I looked at the clock—11:25. Time for bed. Tomorrow was a new day and I was determined to make it a sexy one.
Tuesday, February 12, 8 A.M.
My husband and I met at a fundraiser supporting the preservation of antique teacups. It was early in my modeling career and I’d been escorted to the event by a rising designer watch model, but as soon as our eyes met, I knew I wanted him to be the father of my children. His face was so symmetrical. I wanted that for my babies.
—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better
I love my husband, but sometimes I want to scream in his face. These days all it takes is one of his insensitive remarks, and I start picturing my life as a single mother, the two of us passing Aubrey between us at mutually agreed upon locations like a highway truck stop. Naturally, I’d be thin by then, due to all of the stress.
Let me tell you what happened.
Aubrey has been waking up at 2 a.m. on the dot for the past few days. Teething, growth spurt, I don’t know. But last night I woke up my doting husband and asked him to go get her. Just this once. For the first time EVER in the eight months since OUR baby was born. Did I mention how this is OUR baby? The one we made together? Do you know what the man who promised to be there “for better or for worse” said to me?
“I have to work in the morning.”
I have to work in the morning.
I know there is no salary for stay-at-home moms, but is this not a job of some kind? Isn’t what I do work? I know I’m not getting paid, but it’s not like I can just pop a squat and have a nap whenever I want.
“I have to be up in the morning, too,” was my seething response in the dark.
“Yeah, Ashley, but you can sleep when the baby sleeps,” he said through a yawn.
Sleep when the baby sleeps? And am I supposed to wash dishes when the baby washes dishes, fold laundry when the baby folds laundry, and sweep the floor when the baby sweeps the floor?
If it weren’t for the marriage passion fire challenge, or whatever it’s called, I would have flipped on the lights and told him exactly what I thought of his “sleep when the baby sleeps” idea.
All I asked was that he get up with her, just this once, and he threw his important job in my face.
I feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse into his subconscious. I’m the nonworking stay-at-home mom who should get up nights because he’s an oh-so-important contributing member of society because obviously I don’t need a good night’s rest every now and then. Motherhood can be run on fumes alone. Good to know.
So far the only thing burning in our love furnace is any chance that he’ll be getting any of this spaghetti squash before Aubrey’s eighteenth birthday.
8:45 P.M.
My husband is my best friend. He understands exactly what I’m going through as a mom. Sometimes it’s like we’re twins!
—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better
I was prepared to be in a huff when David got back from work. The plan was to barely speak and close the fridge too hard until he asked me what was wrong five billion times. Five billion times I’d say “nothing” until he let his guard down. Only then would I unleash a heartfelt torrent of emotional diarrhea. That’s how we do things. But I never had the chance.
He missed dinner entirely without even calling. This has never happened. Ever. Not in our entire marriage.
I texted my standard What time today? at 4 p.m. when I was at my brink. Aubrey had been screaming every time her favorite episode of VeggieFriends ended, meaning I’d been watching it on a loop for forty-five minutes.
His reply? Late.
One word.
I typed, Okay, what time?
He replied, Not sure busy.
He knows Estimated Times of Arrival are the only things that get me through afternoons. Could it be possible that he’s angry about last night? That would be rich. But coming home late isn’t his anger style at all. Usually he just gets quiet until I gently coax him with rapid-fire questioning.
When he hadn’t come home by 7:30, I called him. Aubrey was fresh out of the bath and squirming in my arms as I balanced the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Where are you?”
His voice was curt, “Work. Where else would I be?”
Excuse me? I let it slide because Aubrey was thirty seconds away from wiggling out of my arms and onto the floor. What is it about being naked that makes babies so athletic?
“What’s going on?”
I heard a muffled side conversation. He wasn’t listening.
“David? I said what’s going on?”
He finished talking to whoever needed his attention more than I did. “Pepperoni and olives,” he said.
“Are you ordering pizza?” My voice was shriller than I meant it to be. Aubrey glanced up at me, probably wondering if I was yelling at her.
“Ashley, I really need to go. We’re swamped. I worked through lunch and, yes, we’re finally getting some dinner.”
“Who’s we?”
“Barry, the partners and myself,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a three-year-old.