Confessions of a Domestic Failure

Tuesday, February 26, 10:30 A.M.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I whispered. There I sat, smack dab in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by no less than eighteen loads of laundry that represented every item of clothing my family owned. The oppressive cotton and poly-spandex blends formed valleys and peaks, they mingled, socks with ties, panty hose with infant tutus, conspiring against my sanity like rebel forces. The dark wood was completely hidden under the sea of multicolored, wrinkled fabric.

At 9:30 that morning I decided to jump into the Home Challenge headfirst and tackle the first of three of Emily’s sub-challenges.

Motherhood Better Mail

From: Emily Walker

To: My Mommies

Good morning from Manhattan! I’m meeting with buyers from Neiman Marcus (hush-hush!) this morning and will have a big surprise for you in a couple of days. But first, as you know, I’ve divided the Home Challenge into three bite-sized goals that I just know you ladies are going to rock.

Declutter

Deep Clean

Design

Today we’re tackling a hot topic: laundry. Are you REALLY wearing all of those clothes? Lay everything out in front of you and get rid of what you haven’t worn in the past ten days. Only store pieces that 1) you truly cherish, such as your wedding dress or a piece from the Emily Walker MAMA collection coming out this fall, or 2) you can say with 99% certainty you’ll wear again one day—like how the MAMA collection can follow you through all of the stages of motherhood. Do the same for your kids. This challenge is all about making your life and homes LIGHTER! Can you feel it? You’re a cloud.

Love you!

Xox Emily

I’d tried earlier that morning to organize Aubrey’s closet and was doing pretty well until the crushing nervous breakdown complete with heaving sobs. It didn’t happen all at once. In fact, everything was going fine up until I found her newborn socks. Newborn socks that she’ll never wear again, to be more specific.

I’d been sorting her clothes into two storage containers: one massive gray one for donating and one medium-sized blue one for keepsake items to reminisce over when I’m seventy or to give to my grandchildren. After twenty minutes, the donation container was next to empty, other than an over-the-top stark white, frilly newborn dress, complete with a scratchy tulle liner and headband that Gloria tried to insist I bring Aubrey home in.

I declined, of course. It seemed cruel to make an infant go from floating within the soft, warm walls of the embryonic sac to scratchy tulle in a matter of hours. The only solution had been to misplace the hideous dress until Aubrey grew out of it.

I’d just thrown the garment into the donation container and was scraping around the back of her closet when I found the socks. Two little yellow fuzzy socks that never seemed to stay on her plucky newborn feet. They were like chicken legs; I remembered how her toes would fray when she cried.

And, oh, how she cried. I’d heard babies cry before and it had never affected me, but her screechy wails sent pangs to my heart in a way that was so unexpected and all-consuming. Sitting on Aubrey’s pale pink carpet, I thought about how it seemed like yesterday that I would swaddle her in a white muslin blanket (my wrapping style was rather sloppy and she often looked like a messy burrito) and tug those socks onto her feet. Three seconds later they were off again.

I know they say newborns can’t smile and it’s just gas, but I swear, every time I, exasperated, put those socks back on her, the edges of her mouth would turn up as if to say, “I don’t think so, lady.”

As I held the socks, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, watching my now nine-month-old play with her toes that were so much bigger and less chicken-like and more toddler-like, I started to cry. Almost a year had gone by. It was all happening too fast. I can’t even remember what it felt like to hold Aubrey as a newborn. All I had left were her socks, and I was supposed to just give them away?

I began to pull out all of her newborn sleepers, blankets and bitty hats. These were not just clothes, they were memories from my first few months of being a mom. I couldn’t throw them in a black garbage bag and leave them outside of a donation center on the sidewalk like trash. It’s easier for Emily, she has five kids and gets to see the same socks worn over and over. I only have Aubrey and frankly, my plate feels full, overflowing, really.

I added the socks to the Keep pile. And then the sleepers. Then the hats. Then the burp rags, so soft from multiple washings. In half an hour, I’d gone through every item Aubrey had ever owned and not only had I failed to part with anything, I also had a headache from crying.

#Success.

Then I remembered a DIY quilt tutorial I’d seen on Pinterest. Who knew—maybe one day I’d turn all of this into a fabulous, handmade blanket. The chances of that are about as high as me taking up competitive deep-sea diving, but it was the only excuse I needed to put all of Aubrey’s outgrown clothes right back in the closet where I found them. At least they were folded now. That had to count for something.

Things went a little better with my own clothes. As I already knew, I owned a separate wardrobe for each of the different versions of myself.

Pre-Pregnancy Me

This person was always trying to improve her body despite being quite hot. She owned pantsuits, fitted sports jackets (that I can no longer button over a wobbly muffin top), skinny jeans for spending the day shopping or reading in a bookstore, matching exercise outfits, bras that wouldn’t come close to containing the gals today and cute, teeny-tiny panties that would maybe cover one of my butt cheeks.

Pregnant Me

This person started off cute enough: fashionable, boot-cut maternity jeans and silky tops that were professional but showed off my teeny-tiny bump. Dressing for the beginning of my second trimester was a blast. I had a perfectly round bump that was downright adorable under baby-doll dresses and clingy tops.

Somewhere between the end of the twenty-eighth week and the beginning of the thirtieth, I exploded into a sea creature and grew so large that strangers winced as I waddled past them. Bye-bye stretchy denim, hello yoga pants. Dressing for comfort meant breathable fabrics, dark colors (to hide the food stains) and whatever shirts would cover my rapidly expanding bump.

Postpartum Me

Even if I could fit back into my pre-pregnancy clothes, I wouldn’t wear them. My days are spent collapsing strollers, rolling around the living room floor, running errands and foraging for coffee. Pantsuits? Yeah, right. I wear absorbent fabrics because they double as a paper towel. If it looks and feels like pajamas, sign me up. A fashion designer might call my look Sleepwear Chic or Bedroom Casual.

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