Confessions of a Domestic Failure

Never hesitate to reach out to me.

Love, Emily

I’m doomed.


9 P.M.

David is working late again. He let me know via a very personal text message: Late night. No dinner.

He sent the text at 5 p.m., which meant I’d already started cooking. I wish he’d let me know earlier. Does he think I’m cooking for myself? I’d be perfectly happy eating a couple of frozen waffles slathered with chocolate-peanut butter spread. They pair beautifully with cheap red wine. I’m certainly not cooking for an eight-month-old who takes ten minutes to polish off a single cracker.

I dutifully finished up the spaghetti and meatballs I’d been working on for the last hour and dined alone with Aubrey. I know technically that if Aubrey is there I’m not alone, but infants aren’t known for their dinner conversation.

I may not have been alone, but I was lonely. Very lonely. He had to have been planning a little something for Valentine’s Day, I hoped. Though, at this point, I’d be thrilled to receive a box of drugstore chocolates.

Maybe if I’d tended to our love furnace earlier, the nights David works late wouldn’t be so hard. The furnace would be hot enough to keep me warm or something. The metaphors were starting to irritate me.

All I kept hearing from everyone—Joy, my mom and strangers at the grocery store—is how lucky I was to be a stay-at-home mom, but I wondered, if people knew how much time I spent by myself, whether they’d still say that.

I missed David. I looked forward to him getting home, not just to throw Aubrey at him the second he walked through the door, but to have him here with me. I really, really missed him.

An unexpected tear slid down my cheek just as Aubrey glanced up at me from her pile of shredded noodles. She cocked her head to the side like a puppy trying to understand, and then returned to pounding the pasta into her high chair tray with her bare hands. At least someone was having a blast.





Thursday, February 14, 2 P.M.

Date nights are a must for all couples with children. You don’t      have to make them elaborate: dinner, a movie followed by drinks, can make for a      very special night out. I like to buy a new outfit to really get myself excited.      If you don’t have time to shop, many boutiques will send over a concierge with      samples.

—Emily Walker, Motherhood       Better

Happy Valentine’s Day! I couldn’t be happier than I was      at this moment. David had just called me from work. Not only was he coming home      early, but Gloria was babysitting tonight because he was taking me out to      dinner!

“I’ve been working late and I know you’re exhausted with      Aubrey. Things haven’t been easy. I appreciate everything you do.” Those words      came out of my husband’s mouth.

I felt like the high school quarterback had just asked me to go      to prom.

He’d be home at 6, which left me four hours to tidy up (hide      everything I didn’t want Gloria to see), shower, do my hair and makeup, and pick      out something that fit.

The timing couldn’t be better, I was all out of ideas for this      week’s challenge and had two days to write my journal entry.

Can I just say that I have the sweetest, most intuitive husband      ever?


5:55 P.M.

The house was clean (enough), and Gloria should be here      any second. But none of my prebaby dresses would zip up completely, so I’d ended      up running out just before dinner with Aubrey and finding a simple yet elegant      three-quarter-sleeve black wrap dress. It was on sale for $49, marked down from      $220. Score. The saleslady was quick to tell me that the gathered fabric over      the midsection was “very forgiving” and “great for postpartum mommies.”

Ugh. Thanks, size zero college student. I’m sure she was just      parroting sales copy, but maybe a little less emphasis on my stomach? I’m      surprised she didn’t ask me how far along I was. Postpartum? I don’t think I      qualify for that exemption anymore, although I have heard it takes a full year      for internal organs to reposition themselves correctly and for bloating to      subside 100 percent. See? My thirty-two-week post-pregnancy pooch isn’t my      fault. My stomach doesn’t know where to be. And my fluids haven’t gone down. But      you wouldn’t know about that would you, body-shaming saleswoman?

Or so I thought.

Before I walked out of the store, the associate ran over to me      with another coworker in hand.

“Doesn’t she look just like Melissa?” she said, gesturing at      Aubrey.

I smiled. “Is Melissa your sister?”

She grinned. “No, she’s my daughter! She’s six months old.”

I coughed to prevent myself from cursing at the stranger. How dare you look so good and have a baby younger than       mine? is what I wanted to say.

“Oh, how nice! You look fantastic...and rested.”

“Thanks,” my new lifelong enemy said, running her hands down      her sides. “I still have a few more pounds to go. And Melissa’s been sleeping      through the night since she was two weeks old, bless her.”

With that, I walked away for her own safety.

I wasn’t letting anything get me down, though. Tonight was my      night!


6:30 P.M.

David still wasn’t home and hadn’t returned any of my      five texts or two voice mails.

“Leave him be, darling. He’s hard at work. He’ll get here when      he gets here,” Gloria said from the living room couch, bouncing Aubrey on her      lap.

I tried the office line. No answer.

I couldn’t stop pacing. What if he’d gotten into a car      accident? What if something happened? My calls were going straight to voice      mail. What if he was robbed going to the ATM machine and the thief forced him to      chuck his phone into an ocean or something? Aubrey’s never going to see her      daddy again. I could feel the tears start to rise again.


7 P.M.

Did you know that 911 doesn’t consider anyone a missing      person until they’ve been gone for twenty-four hours? Insanity.


10 P.M.

David walked through the door at 9:30, fifteen minutes      after I had insisted Gloria go home.

“He just got caught up with work. I’m sure of it. A mother can      sense these things,” she said, lingering at the front door.

“Normally he’d call. I’m worried.”

“In my day, you know, during the war, we wouldn’t hear back      from our men for months at a time,” she said, waving a finger at me.

I didn’t say “These aren’t war times,” because all I really      wanted was for her to leave so that I could try David’s phone again.

“Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

Fifteen minutes later the door opened and I felt my heart jump      into my throat.

I practically ran toward him.

“Where were you? What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. My phone died.”

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