Confessions of a Domestic Failure

I felt stupid for having asked. What, did I think he was having a romantic candlelight pizza with a woman in his office? Some hot twenty-one-year-old intern who has nothing else to do but burn the midnight oil with my husband? An intern who showers daily and whose healthy, fragrant hair isn’t in a greasy half bun? An intern who isn’t on day three of the same pajama pants? Of course I didn’t.

“Oh, sure. I know. When are you getting home? I made lasagna but since you’re eating...” I hadn’t meant that to come off like a guilt trip but as soon as the words came out of my mouth I knew they sounded like one.

Silence.

“Probably around nine. We’re swamped with the DentaFresh proposal.”

Duh. His firm has been trying to land the toothpaste conglomerate since they launched a year ago. This deal, if they get it, would be huge for them.

“Of course! I totally understand! Work as late as you need to. I’ll be here. Aubrey just got out of the bath. Do you want to say hi?”

He sighed into the phone. “Ashley, I’d love to but I really have to—”

“Go—no problem, honey. Good luck. See you later.”

“Good night.” Click.

Good night? I guess they’d be later than I thought. An hour ago I thought he’d be apologizing to me, and now I felt horrible for wanting him to get up with Aubrey the night before such a big day at work. How was I supposed to know? He doesn’t tell me anything. I tell him everything. Twice. Three times if I’m feeling particularly chatty.

I placed the phone in my pocket and stared at Aubrey. Her still-damp hair framed her cheery face, making her look like a drenched cherub. She giggled, her eyes squinting and cheeks forming small apples. Something in her mouth caught my eye. Using my finger to examine her gums I could see two bumpy white nubs smack dab in the middle of her bottom molars.

First teeth! I squealed, which made her smile even bigger and then laugh. I couldn’t stop staring at them as if they were ruby-encrusted gold nuggets rather than a couple of barely-there baby chompers.

Just as quickly as it came, the wave of excitement turned bittersweet. It was all happening so fast. My baby was growing up. First teeth, then braces, then I’ll turn around and she’ll be filling out college applications. I can almost see her driving away in a car packed to the brim with boxes, off to start her life...away from me. Only to come home on the odd weekend. Tears sprang into my eyes and I hugged her tightly. The moment was interrupted when a strange warmth flooded my midsection.

“Aubrey, did you—” Pee. I pinched the soaked edge of my T-shirt with my free hand and looked down at Aubrey. She glanced back at me innocently, as if to say, “Are you sure that was me?”

It’s only pee, I said to myself as I made my way to her bedroom to get her ready for bed. I read somewhere that it’s sterile, anyway.

As I walked down the hallway, I couldn’t help but wish David were with me. He’d love to know that she’d gotten her first tooth. I could imagine him laughing as I told him that she’d marked her territory on me yet again. But I didn’t want to disturb him—again.

“Sorry, business partners, I need to take this call. My eight-month-old just grew two teeth and pissed on my wife.” Yeah, that screams professionalism.





Wednesday, February 13, 11 A.M.

David didn’t make it back home until after 1 a.m. Right after he pecked me on the cheek and collapsed into bed, Aubrey started fussing.

My hopes that the arrival of new teeth finally popping through would settle her sleep nonschedule were in vain. It took me half an hour to get her back down. I’ve spent the morning researching the “cry it out” method.

Here’s what I’ve learned so far.

Half of the internet thinks crying it out is hard to carry out but a perfectly healthy way to get babies on track to becoming fantastic sleepers for their entire lives, which in turn will lead to happy, successful adults who excel both at work and in their personal lives.

The other half of the internet believes that if you let your baby cry it out you will permanently damage their spirit and their brain, and they’ll end up selling their bodies down by the train tracks for illicit drugs and dying of an overdose before they hit thirty.

What. Am. I. Supposed. To. Do?

I was desperate for sleep at this point. This morning I wore two different shoes to the café. I didn’t even realize it until a five-year-old loudly asked her mommy if it was “crazy feet day” while pointing at them. I replied, “Why, yes it is, darling,” in the sweetest voice I could muster, in case you’re wondering where I’m operating, maturity-wise.

I bought a book called Love Sleep Repeat, which sounds like the insomniac’s guide to the Kama Sutra, but it is really the go-to manual for learning how to do the whole crying-it-out thing. The book was written by a medical professional, Dr. Faber, who, according to the internet again, is both the best and most evil man to ever walk the planet.

Aubrey was hell-bent on eating the prologue, so I only managed to read the first few pages, but I get the idea. Instead of rocking your night screamer to sleep, you simply give them what are called “verbal assurances” until their dependence on you to soothe their night wakefulness vanishes. I hope Dr. Faber is right, because these double vanilla lattes are getting expensive.

Speaking of beds, I have four more days to get Operation Love Furnace up and roaring hot, but between Aubrey keeping me a zombie mom and David working around the clock, what’s a mother to do?

Then I remembered. Emily said that if we need extra help to just ask. I mean, what could an international TV host, businesswoman, mother of five and jet-setting author have going on that would prevent her having the time to help me with my love shack problems?

It’s better than flunking out.

Private Message

Hi Emily! I know you’re busy with the book and your kids and your life (that, by the way, is the stuff dreams are made of, you inspire me every single day, thank you so much for having me in this incredible program, I’m learning tons), but I was wondering if you could give me some advice. I’m having a bit of a time lighting my passion fire. Any easy tricks to share? Thank you so much! Xo Ashley

*

A month ago if you’d told me I’d be asking Emily Walker, my momspiration, for relationship advice, I’d have said you were crazy. And yet here we are.

I pressed Send. Looking over at Aubrey, I saw that she was doing her telltale squished-up, breath-holding poop face. How a baby on a mostly liquid diet can create such horrifyingly large emissions, I’ll never understand.

Five minutes later I was done changing her and heard a little ping from my laptop, which was still open on the couch. One new message.

Private Message

Dearest Ashley,

I feel so honored that you trusted me with such an intimate inquiry. Progress in the Motherhood Better Bootcamp depends on the openness and earnestness you’ve shown. When Thomas and I were new parents to our sweet twins, we had a little ritual. Every night after they drifted off to sleep, we would take a bath together. Essential oils and sustainable beeswax candles transformed our bathroom into a Sharing Lair. We’d pour our hearts out to each other, cradled in the warm waters of life, a womb keeping our love aglow.

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