Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  “So,” he said awkwardly, “can I just hire you to do that for me?” Mike and I looked at each other. Could he? Our negotiation took place at the farmer’s market, that same day. I’d be a part-time Sales and Marketing Director. I’d get phantom shares in the company and a board seat. I’d work between twenty and thirty hours a week, doing three days in the office, so I could be more present with our kids. I left the farmer’s market that day with five pounds of squash I had no idea how to cook, and a new job.

  That Monday, I put in my two-weeks’ notice at the agency and was immediately escorted from the building. I was free.

  That first year at Coffee Collective was electric. I arrived every day ready to create something incredible, and we did. Dale was grateful for my expertise and valued my input. We tested every roast, named every coffee, and approved every design choice, together.

  And then it happened. Dale’s parents, finally feeling that swell of parental pride in their third child, used some of their social capital to get the local business journal to come and interview their son. Dale was a nervous wreck, but I prepped him for days beforehand, filling his head with perfect pull quotes and impressive statistics. I bought him a new outfit just for the occasion: a fresh black hoodie and a crisp button-down to go under it, the perfect combination of professional and casual.

  It worked.

  Three months later, Dale’s face was on the cover, smirking boyishly from the magazine rack of every local grocery store. The writer had been charmed by Dale, by his work ethic and ethos. By me, via Dale.

  Investors outside of Dale’s family showed up with buckets of money for him. The college “buddies” who had ditched him long before he failed out showed up “ready to help,” and pretty soon our little duo became five and ten and fifteen and twenty people, hired impulsively by a person who just wanted to be liked.

  Someone had to be a grown-up, and that someone was me. I became more than just part-time sales and marketing. I became the COO. The CFO. The CMO. HR. Not officially—there was no title or salary change—but by default, the same way I became the who knows where the fire extinguisher is, and the person who had to explain to actual adult males why you cannot light fireworks indoors. Someone had to do it, so I did. I do. Every single day, for way more than four hours a day.

  What we sell is five times more expensive than anything your parents ever drank, and we sell fuck-tons of it. We sell it to unnamed restaurants, to “general stores,” to anywhere there may be a piece of reclaimed wood and a man who was born a Chad but reinvented himself after college as a Silas. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Last year, we became the exclusive coffee partner for America’s third-leading airline. The year before, we got onto the shelves of two of the nation’s top discount retailers, which meant we were fast becoming the coffee of choice for the most powerful financial demographic in the US: moms.

  My anxiety starts the moment I see our building. It took three architects and two “vibe experts” to create what Dale envisioned as “the chillest work zone ever.” Most of our space is devoted to “co-working zones,” areas that are free from individual workstations and “designed to foster cross-functional collaboration across departments.” Walking by, you might assume that it’s an adult daycare: oversize beanbags (really) cluster around a gas fireplace, a large kitchen fully stocked with sugary snacks, and ping-pong tables that are always in use. In one corner, individual “nap pods” are set up for our employees to “recharge.” My office, up a flight of industrial chic stairs, overlooks this entire scene. It’s like a terrarium of young millennials.

  “Where have you been, Mama?” Tessa asks me the moment I walk in the door. She’s in the middle of a ping-pong game but has the courtesy to set down her paddle and pretend to be working when she sees me.

  I’m the oldest person in our office by only five years, but that five years must seem like a lifetime, because they all call me some variation of “mom.” “I’m twenty minutes early!” I clip back to her, and she falls into step, pulling up my schedule.

  “There’s no such thing as on time for you,” she says, and I know she’s right. It doesn’t matter when I walk in the door because I’m always booked to be in at least two meetings at once. I like Tessa. She’s smart as hell, and completely unafraid. She practices what she calls a “growth mind-set,” which I think just means she is open to trying new things and isn’t too upset when she’s not automatically good at them. I wish that mind-set had existed when I was younger. Tessa has been with me for a year now—the longest she’s been at any job, she keeps reminding me—and I want to help her develop into the professional I know she can be. I also want her to stop reading me her sex horoscopes and asking me to diagnose her rashes.

  Tessa is in the middle of giving me the download on our weekly sales data when she stops suddenly and turns white as a sheet.

  “Tessa?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m . . . really hungover. Can I have your trash can?”

  I open my laptop and watch my unread emails pour into my inbox while Tessa heaves up last night’s mistakes.

  To: McKinley Mom Squad

  From: Gwendolyn James

  CC: Principal Burr; McKinley Staff

  BCC: Gwendolyn James

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: MCKINLEY MOM SQUAD 2019!!!

  Hi Mamas,

  If you’re reading this, it’s because we haven’t heard from you about our McKinley Mom Squad Fiscal Plan. We have big plans for this year, and we can only accomplish our dreams for our children’s future if we have you on board! Please reply to this email within 15 minutes to indicate your preference for committees or fundraisers, or a duty will be assigned to you.

  In Love,

  Gwendolyn James

  @GwendolynJamesStyle

  Click here for my latest blog post

  Click here to shop my Amazon affiliate links

  Click here to download my free eBook: Rich Mom, Loser Mom

  “The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.”

  —Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

  I didn’t even see Dale come into my office, but he’s circling a scooter around my coffee table like he owns the place. Which, fine, he does. But does he have to scoot everywhere? My kids are the actual target demographic for the exact scooter that Dale insists on riding, and even they have moved on from the need to glide through the house on what is basically a two-wheeled skateboard with a handle. At least when Dale walks, with the heavy, unathletic gait of a man whose main sport growing up was playing NBA Jam on his PlayStation, I can hear him coming.

  I have no idea what Dale is saying. Something about a dream? As I always do in these moments, I reply with my default Dale response.

  “Oh yeah?”

  The question leads him to say more and indicates that I’m taking a small amount of interest in whatever he is saying. It placates him just enough that while he’s expounding on his latest brilliant idea, I can actually get my work done. I did the same thing with Dylan and Jane when they were little, and I was working from home. It worked until they realized that “Oh yeah?” meant that I wasn’t actually paying attention and they could go climb up on the counter to the cabinet where I “hid” their Halloween candy. Dale, bless him, hasn’t realized that yet. I thought that phase in my life was the most stressed I’d ever be. Agency life meant working sixty-hour weeks, screaming into the daycare parking lot at 5:58 and ignoring the glares from the teachers, who already had Dylan and Jane bundled up in their coats and ready to go. The center imposed a fee of five dollars per minute for late pickups, but as long as I crossed that threshold before the clock struck six, I was golden. Those years are a blur of cortisol and caffeine, and I was so sure that I had left them behind when I met Dale. Instead, I’m basically right back where I started, only with more children in my care.

  Dale’s ability to get lost in his recounting of
his own dreams is amazing to me. He’s absorbed enough in his own voice that I can grab my phone and tap out a text to Mike without getting busted.

  ME: Work sucks today. Can you be on after-school duty?

  Three dots flicker next to his name, then disappear.

  My brain feels like my computer: like too many windows are open, and too many programs are running at once. From the moment I wake up, I’m operating at full capacity, trying to shift my attention from the kids to Mike to work to the million other tasks that seem to always, always, fall onto my to-do list. I have to buy Mike’s mom a birthday present. I have to find a venue for the company retreat. I have to schedule the kids’ yearly checkups and make sure Roscoe gets his flea and tick medication sometime this week.

  Still no response from Mike.

  ME: Mike. Answer me.

  The three dots flicker again and then disappear.

  “It’s like, there I am, butt naked . . .”

  Dale is still talking about his stupid dream, but my computer is beeping at me. I’m supposed to dial in to a conference call with our sales team.

  “Amy Mitchell,” I say, overenunciating when the robo-operator asks for my name.

  “Huh?” says Dale.

  I hold up my finger to indicate that he should be quiet, but apparently Dale’s real mom never used that move with him, because he does the exact opposite and pulls his scooter right up to my desk, where he plops his scrawny little butt right next to my laptop.

  Oh. Right. It’s a video call. On my screen, our sales reps are popping up in little squares like members of the Brady Bunch, dialing in from their homes and hotel rooms. Does everyone else have better lighting? Get better sleep? Have better genes? Because my camera has picked up on the dark circles under my eyes. They’re somehow casting a shadow upward, making me look like the business-lady version of Skeletor.

  “So, what do you think? End of quarter?” Dale says as he jumps up and scoots behind my desk to show off for all his salespeople.

  They cheer and wave to him, and I mute my microphone and switch off my camera, turning my chair and my focus to the man-child in charge of my income and my daily schedule.

  “What do you think?” he repeats, with the excitement of someone completely unencumbered by reality.

  In the corner of my eye, I can see my email notifications rolling in, just like they do in my nightmares: Jane, Tessa, GAP, Tessa, Mike, Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn . . .

  “Well, what do you think?” I ask. Another trick I use on Dylan and Jane when I haven’t been listening to a word they’re saying.

  “I think . . . that if anyone can roll out a brand-new sales program to hotels, it’s you. Our team mom.”

  My blood pressure rises.

  My phone dings. Mike has finally responded. It’s . . . a gif. Of a dog wearing sunglasses. The word “COOL” wiggles beneath it. Is this a yes? Is he picking up the kids after school . . . ?

  More email notifications pop up in my peripheral vision, rolling in like a tide of bullshit threatening to pull me under . . .

  The conference call beckons, a half dozen people waiting for guidance. I turn around, switch the camera back on, smile, and signal that I need a sec. Somehow I look more tired when I smile?

  It’s all too much. There is no way I can juggle all this bullshit. I feel like I’m going to scream. Instead, I spin back to my boss.

  “And just when would I do this, Dale?” I ask, gesturing to the piles of work on my desk. “I’m already running sales for supermarkets, restaurants, and airlines. I’m already running basically everything.”

  He’s back on my desk, kicking his feet against the legs the same way Dylan used to kick the back of my seat from his car seat. He nods, and for a moment, I think that he might be considering the position I’m in. That he might look at my overflowing plate and think, Wow. This woman is doing a lot. She’s going so far above and beyond that there is no way I could add yet another ball to the circus act she is currently juggling.

  “You know, Amy?” he finally says. “I can’t remember if it was Dr. Martin Luther King or Dr. Oz who said it, but it’s true . . . we make time for the things that are important to us.”

  * * *

  To: carladunkler69@hotmail.com; Amy Mitchell; kikiloveskent@gmail.com

  From: Gwendolyn James

  CC: Principal Burr; McKinley Staff

  BCC: Gwendolyn James

  Subject: McKinley Mom Squad Assignments

  Hi Mamas,

  Thanks for being a part of our McKinley Mom Squad. We’re looking forward to this year being the best year yet. Your assignments are as follows:

  Lice Task Force

  Landscaping

  In Love,

  Gwendolyn James

  @GwendolynJamesStyle

  Click here to see why Oprah called my blog “a must-read”

  Click here to download my free eBook: It All Comes Down to Mom: 1,000 Reasons Why Motherhood Is Your Most Important Job

  To: Amy Mitchell

  From: Jane Mitchell

  Subject: Emergency!!!!

  Mom,

  I have an emergency. Soccer tryouts aren’t next week. They’re THIS WEEK. I haven’t had any time to work on my first touch, and Blair and Gandhi said they spent the summer training with Abby Wambach??? Please tell me you know a professional athlete who can get me up to speed ASAP.

  PS—who is picking us up from school?

  To: Mike Mitchell

  From: Amy Mitchell

  Subject: ARE YOU PICKING UP THE KIDS FROM SCHOOL

  To: Amy Mitchell

  From: Mike Mitchell

  Subject: RE: ARE YOU PICKING UP THE KIDS FROM SCHOOL

  What? Babe. I have a job. I can’t do pickup! I’m taking our EVP out for drinks to celebrate his promotion. See you at home?

  6

  Kiki

  To: kikiloveskent@gmail.com

  From: noreply@deckwarehouse.com

  Subject: 40% off all-weather decking!

  Dear {Name},

  As a valued member of our community of contractors, we’d like to offer you 40% off the essentials that will cut your costs AND keep your customers happy. Your 40% off coupon code is BIGDECKENERGY and is good for the next 48 hours.

  To: noreply@deckwarehouse.com

  From: kikiloveskent@gmail.com

  Subject: RE: 40% off all-weather decking!

  Hello!

  My name is Kiki, and I got the email below this morning. I wanted to reply to thank you for the generous offer, and to let you know that I am afraid there must have been a mistake. I am not a decking contractor, and therefore am probably unqualified to use this coupon. I apologize if I misled anyone, but I wanted to correct this to ensure your very generous offer could be extended to a person who truly deserves it.

  Thank you so much for the kind offer and keep up the good work!

  Best wishes,

  Kiki

  To: kikiloveskent@gmail.com

  From: noreply@deckwarehouse.com

  Subject: RE: RE: 40% off all-weather decking!

  STATUS: UNDELIVERABLE.

  * * *

  My life revolves around poop.

  When Clara eats too many blueberries, her poop looks like it’s made of kinetic sand. When the twins have peanut butter, their poops look like peanut butter. Bernard poops exactly five minutes before we leave for school. Last month, Clara didn’t poop for four days straight, and when she finally did, it was like she was delivering a baby. I’m not kidding. I had to help her deliver her poop baby. I had to actually put my finger in her butt and break the poop apart so it could come out of her tiny little butt without ripping her apart. It wasn’t even disgusting to me. It was exciting.

  It was exciting because it was different. Most days blend together. Monday is the same as Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday. Saturday and Sunday aren’t even all that different, aside from the fact that Kent is home more and we go to church for a few hours. That should feel nice and h
elpful, but it’s more of a disruption to our routine. Clara’s poop baby was like when breaking news interrupts Dancing with the Stars. It’s a little annoying at first, but then you realize, wow, I’m glad I knew a tornado was heading for our house. Kent being at home is like when they try to introduce a new coach on The Voice, and the chemistry is off, and you just think, Why couldn’t Gwen Stefani stay out of this?!!

  One morning this summer, Bernard stabbed me in the leg with a fork while I was making lunch. I think it was an accident—people get stabbed every day in America!—but it sure was an exciting afternoon. The urgent care doctor said that next time I get stabbed, I could feel free to go right to the emergency room.

  THERE’S A REASON MY MOM AND DAD CALLED ME MISSUS Peepers growing up. Two reasons, I guess. I have giant blue eyeballs, and I watch people. Only children get used to observing the world around them. As a kid, I saw motherhood as both a duty and a full-time job. All the moms in Minot were the same. They wore the same crewneck sweatshirts, which changed with the seasons. Typically, they were silk-screened with nature scenes, but every mom owned a few special seasonal sweatshirts, fancy ones that were embroidered with Christmas scenes or an Easter bunny. The fanciest ones had a decorative polo collar attached, which would be embroidered with a coordinating pattern. During our summers, the moms would switch to a wardrobe of loose, elastic-waisted pants, cut to land in the least flattering part of their calves, and switch to a palette of pastel tees and tanks. Their wardrobes changed with the seasons, but not with the years. Sometimes, when I’m homesick, I concentrate really hard and try to imagine what my mom is wearing that day before I FaceTime her. My predictions are spot-on.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear now that I’m a mom. The fancy sweatshirts I have seem out of place here. I would have been fine staying in Fargo, but Kent’s job offered him a much better position and a lot more money if we’d just move a short ten-hour drive from everything and everyone we’ve ever known. I didn’t think we needed more money, but Kenton wants to be debt-free and retired by fifty-five so we can spend our golden years driving through all forty-eight of our contiguous United States in an RV.