Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  “This is perfectly natural, Jane,” I say, “so hush. And grab me some of those free razors by the sinks. Three at least.”

  IT’S AMAZING HOW TIRED YOU CAN GET FROM DOING ABSOLUTELY nothing. Or, nothing that involves your body moving at all. Jane and I soak, steam, and bathe all day. We don’t even need to use Carla’s excuse. Jane blends in perfectly, probably because she’s the only twelve-year-old I know who worries about having a solid retirement plan. We sit in the sauna so long Jane’s glasses nearly melt off her face. We leap into the plunge pool, not realizing it’s freezing cold, then head directly into the steam room, feeling our bodies thaw in the heat.

  “MOM.” JANE SIGHS AS SHE LIES ON A LOUNGE CHAIR IN THE sunroom after a relaxing lunch of sliced fruit and water with slices of cucumber floating in it. “Thanks for today. I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed in my entire life.”

  I look at her, in her fancy bathrobe and her hair wrapped up in a towel, and I smile. My girl does look relaxed, really and truly.

  “As someone who has known you for your entire life, I can guarantee that you have never been this relaxed. Ever. You were born tense. The only time you aren’t running at a hundred and ten percent is when you’re sleeping, and even then, I’m sure your dreams aren’t any fun.”

  Jane considers this for a moment, nodding. “They’re mainly just going over the next day’s to-do lists. It’s a habit I developed from researching the world’s most efficient millionaires.” So much for Jane becoming a more relaxed person.

  “The point is, Jane, you needed a break. It’s just a lot going on right now, with soccer, and school, and Mandarin, and Dad—”

  Shit.

  “Dad? What about Dad?” Jane’s voice is back to its rapid-fire, high-octave panic mode. “Oh GOD,” she shouts, melting into her chair, “is he sick? Does he have what Emily’s dad has? Is he going to get all skinny and then die??”

  The few women on the other side of the sunroom sit up, alarmed or maybe just annoyed at the volume and pitch of Jane’s voice.

  “No, honey! He’s not sick,” I reassure her while my brain tries to piece together a plan for how exactly to tell her the truth. But my brain isn’t fast enough, and Jane gets there first.

  “You’re getting a divorce! You’re getting a divorce, and I’m going to have to stand up in court and choose between you!”

  “JANE.” I grab her bony shoulders. “Your dad and I are not getting a divorce . . . I don’t think. Not yet at least.”

  That didn’t help.

  “Yet?! That means you’re getting a divorce! And I’m going to have to live in an apartment! And Dad’s going to get a trashy younger girlfriend, and everyone is going to ask if we’re sisters!”

  Wow. Nothing gets past this one.

  “Jane. I am going to be honest with you: your dad and I are probably going to get a divorce. I don’t know when. But the important thing is that you know that we both love you, and that this isn’t your fault.”

  Jane’s eyes widen.

  “My fault! Why would it be my fault? Now of course I think it’s my fault! Why would you even say that?!”

  If there were a rewind button for this conversation, I would be smashing it at this moment, desperately trying to get back to the blissful moment when our biggest problem of the day was whether to order another pressed juice. But there is no rewind button. There is only the present moment, and my scared, insecure daughter, and a few women actively eavesdropping nearby.

  “I don’t know why I said that!” I try to whisper. “Jane, I’ve never done this before. I think I saw a grown-up say that in a TV show once?”

  Jane’s eyes soften.

  “Where am I going to spend Christmas?!”

  Christmas? I hadn’t thought about Christmas. Oh God, I’m going to have to split holidays with a man who has never picked out a Christmas present on his own?

  “Christmas is months from now, Jane.”

  Jane wipes tears from her red cheeks with the palms of her hands.

  “This just isn’t how I thought my life would turn out. I just want a normal life where everything goes perfectly.”

  Join the club, I think.

  “Honey. A normal life is where nothing goes perfectly. And I should have probably done a better job of showing you that. Life is messy. I’m messy! I just hide it really well. But life can be messy and wonderful.” I sound like an inspirational Instagram meme, but it might be working.

  “Like Dylan.” She smirks.

  “Exactly like Dylan. You know, I do his laundry, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know how to wipe his butt. But he’s still a pretty good kid. He doesn’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to be perfect. Our life is never going to be perfect. But we’re all going to be just fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m your mom. And I know what you’re made of. Did you know that when you were born you spent three extra days in the hospital?”

  I know she knows this, and I also know that she loves hearing her birth story.

  “They give every baby a few tests, to make sure they’re okay. And you know what? You failed them! You failed them over and over and over and the doctors said, well, we have to keep her.”

  Jane laughed a little.

  “Your dad called it Baby Jail, because you were in this incubator, and you had so many tubes connected to you, all because you just would NOT pass the test! Jane, the first grade you ever got was a big, fat F. And look at you now. You’re amazing. And that has nothing to do with being perfect. It has everything to do with you. You’re tenacious and amazing and so intense you sometimes scare me. And it doesn’t matter where you live or if your parents are married, you’re always going to be Jane. Your mom will always love you. Your dad will always love you. Your brother will always love you. You will always have us cheering you on and helping you up when you fall. We love you so much, Janer.”

  “And I’ll probably get two Christmases.”

  Ah. There it is. The balm that heals all children of divorce: consumerism.

  * * *

  To: Principal Burr

  From: Amy Mitchell

  CC: Gwendolyn James; Coach Craig; McKinley Mom Squad; McKinley Staff

  Subject: Jane Mitchell

  Hello All,

  Just a quick note to let you know that my daughter, Jane Mitchell, will be respectfully withdrawing from the following activities:

  Mandarin Club

  Recycling Committee

  Feelings Club

  Math League

  Debate

  Model UN

  She will remain on the McKinley Soccer Club (go, Mustangs!).

  Thanks so much for your understanding.

  Best,

  Amy Mitchell

  To: Amy Mitchell

  From: Gwendolyn James

  CC: Principal Burr; Coach Craig; McKinley Mom Squad; McKinley Staff

  Subject: RE: Jane Mitchell

  Hi, Amy.

  Thanks so much for keeping us updated on Jane’s condition. I hope that you reached this decision with the help of a mental health professional, as I’d hate for Jane to grow up and resent you for projecting your own unhealthy behaviors on to her. Said with love: our children look to us to be examples, and structure and activity is paramount to raising healthy, happy children.

  Please let us know if you and Jane change your minds, and if there is anything we can do to support your family through this difficult time.

  Best,

  Gwendolyn

  Download my eBook: Happy Kids, Happy Mom: A Selfless Journey Through Motherhood

  22

  Carla

  I’ve been leaving my phone on silent lately due to an unfortunate case of mistaken identity. I know better than to answer an unknown number, but the local radio station gives away a trip to Cancun every fall and I filled out, like, a hundred giveaway forms and I thought maybe my time had come? Instead it was Mr. Nolan asking if he had Carla Dunkler on the line. Mr
. Nolan, the only hot teacher at our dumb school. Mr. Nolan, who I was hoping to bang. After I said in my sexiest voice that yes, it was Carla, he said he wanted to “talk about Jaxon.” Shit.

  I’m not a great mom, but I know what those three words mean. For a boy like Jaxon, it means that I’m about to get an earful from some dumbass with a college degree who is going to tell me that my kid is too “spirited” or too “disruptive.” I know that after “it’s about Jaxon” comes a bunch of bullshit about how he may benefit from medication, or how his energy levels have become a problem in the classroom. And look, I don’t think my kid is perfect by any means. I’m not the kind of parent who goes to parent-teacher conferences to give the teacher a bunch of shit about how special their kid is, and whether the teacher is doing enough to challenge my precious little flower of a human being. I mean, I’m not the kind of parent who goes to parent-teacher conferences, period, but that’s only because the kindergarten one ended with Mrs. Fagnani trying to give me a bunch of books about raising “a kid like Jaxon.”

  I’d told Mr. Nolan I’d get back to him with a time that worked for me and made a mental note to avoid the shit out of him for the rest of the school year. I haven’t been answering my phone since.

  But this incoming call? This was the call I’ve been waiting for ever since Amy told me about her frat-boy husband having an Internet affair with some hosebeast in Wisconsin. Or maybe Missouri? Somewhere with cows.

  “I need to get laid,” Amy whispered.

  I didn’t need any more details than that. Amy was still talking when I snapped my phone shut and shouted down the hall to Jaxon that I’d be home late and there were pizza rolls in the freezer.

  It ticks me off to think about Mike out there sampling from some Internet sex buffet while Amy’s at home with two kids, a demented dog, and a vagina that’s only met one penis. Women don’t even reach their sexual peak until at least thirty-five. I look around at the moms at McKinley and see a bunch of wild vaginas just waiting to be set free.

  When I was a little girl, my grandmother had to have her vagina removed. I can’t remember the medical term for it, but it was a full-on vagectomy. Like when you accidentally rip off your doll’s leg, and there’s just an empty cavern? That was Grandma. I mean, I never saw her lady cave, but that’s how I imagine it. Grandma didn’t sit around feeling sorry for herself, either. My mom always said, “Your Grandma’s the happiest woman I’ve ever met. And she doesn’t even have a vagina!” You know why? Because when Grandma had a vagina, she used it. When the time came for her to part with her lady parts, she did it with a clear conscience, knowing she’d done all she could while she could do it. And she passed that same joie de vagina on to me. She told me from a young age, “You don’t use it, you lose it. And sometimes you lose it anyway!” Then she’d laugh and ask me to relight her cigarette for her. It was Grandma who told me that premarital sex was the only responsible way to make sure you didn’t “bag a dud.” It was Grandma who told me that, sometimes, it’s a benefit to bang a dude who is significantly shorter than you because then you don’t have to kiss him so much. Grandma told me that the only way to get over a guy was to get on top of, under, or in front of another one.

  Grandma’s advice makes me a certified sex Sherpa for all my friends, especially the divorced ones. I don’t have a résumé, but if I did, I would put “getting my friends laid” right at the top. It’s a special skill of mine, and my talent comes down to two things: dedication and good old-fashioned market research. I’ve seen every Dad Bod and Dad D there is, and I don’t say that insultingly, either. There is nothing wrong with a Dad Bod. Or a Mom Bod, either. Most people get better with age. And thank God, because if we peaked in high school, we’d die thinking the best life could be was having a guy with two first names dry hump you in the backseat of his grandma’s Caprice Classic. That may have been the peak of ninth grade, but there is no way the best days of my life were going to involve me sucking in my stomach for an offensive lineman whose thighs were bigger than my waist. Moms are conditioned to hate our bodies. From the minute your kid comes out of you, the clock to get back to your “prebaby body” starts ticking. You’re expected to take about two months to lose the weight that took you the better part of a year to gain. From the moment we have a kid, our goal is to look as though we never had one at all. Three days after having twins, my neighbor Jenny was sprinting down the street behind a double-wide stroller while wearing a weighted vest. I could see her diaper through her lululemons, and she looked at me like I was the crazy one for enjoying a breakfast margarita on my porch at seven AM. We live in the Midwest; we gotta get our citrus in any way we can.

  Point is, there’s a lot of pressure put on a body that expelled another human from one of its most tender orifices. And that’s why I tell all my single friends to focus on bagging themselves a divorced dad. Or a single dad. Any unattached dad will do. Because a dad didn’t carry a kid, but his body sure looks like it did. And they don’t care. They’re almost proud of it, or at least not ashamed of it. A dad doesn’t pretend to be anything he’s not. He knows he has shoulder hair, and that his naked body looks like an orange balancing on a set of toothpicks. He knows that the population of the world depends on women like you, women who have sacrificed their bodies for the love of the species. He won’t say this specifically, but there’s a quiet . . . deference, maybe? A sense of having given up. And that giving up is critical. It means that he’s grateful. He knows just how lucky he is for any opportunity to paw at your rack. He’s beside himself with the prospect of a visit to your secret garden. That gratitude makes him blind to your c-section scar, your bikini line, or the fact that your white bra is now . . . more of a gray? Here’s the thing about dads: they respect a map, and an instruction manual. You can tell a dad where to put his hands, where to put his dick, and the exact tempo and pressure you expect, and he’ll do it. He’ll do it accurately and he’ll do it proficiently, and if you’re like, “Dennis, too much hip!,” he’ll adjust. Dads have had time to learn from their mistakes, time to perfect either their penetrative or oral skills (rarely both, but you can’t have it all). They have something better than confidence: they have competence. A dad is just happy to be there. As he damn well should be.

  I’ve got the plan laid out before I barge into Amy’s front door: doll her up, get her out, and let her loose. The dads of the greater Chicagoland Area will have no idea what hit them. I hope. Amy’s been with Mike since college, so we’re going to need to reawaken her slut instinct and suppress her intimacy instinct. We need her to not be the girlfriend of the first guy she bangs, okay? It’s fine for Amy to sleep her way through the dad directory. It’s too soon for her to be jumping right into another relationship. We need to get her on some training wheels first.

  IF KIKI THINKS YOUR CLOTHES AREN’T SEXY ENOUGH, YOU have a problem. And Kiki, whose “going out” outfit is a thick black turtleneck sweater, is not impressed with Amy’s outfit choices for the night. Amy has more than a problem. She has a goddamn situation. It’s a situation that includes blazers and beige and for some reason, corduroy? It’s a situation I was not prepared for. How does the hottest woman I know have a closet built to prevent boners in human males? When I asked her to pull out her best “fuck me” heels, she pulled out some Clarks like I’d asked her to show me the best shoes for trying to pick up an orthopedist.

  “I just have work clothes and mom clothes!” Amy tries to explain while I pull out piece after piece of shapeless, bland, sad, depressing, awful clothing from her closet. I’d call them mom clothes, but I would find it personally offensive to myself and generally offensive to all moms. It’s more like every cliché about motherhood got shoved into one closet. I’m talking the wardrobe equivalent of abstinence education. We could donate the entire thing to the Catholic high school and, actually, maybe I’ll go back and do that later. I can tell them it has been proven effective: Amy has only seen one penis in her entire goddamn life, and it belongs to her husband.

/>   “What if I get a weird one?” Amy asks, swiping mascara on her ridiculously long eyelashes. I am the #1 waxer in the tri-county area, and 20 percent of my clients are men. Trust me, I’ve seen a lot of weird dicks in both my personal and professional lives. I’m ready to jump in with a pep talk, but Kiki beats me to it.

  “Oh, they’re all weird!” Kiki reassures her, and Amy and I eye her suspiciously. How the hell would Little House on the Prairie know anything about peni in the plural?

  “They are,” she insists. “I had kind of a wild time freshman year of college. Whenever my mom wasn’t staying in my dorm room with me, it was like Game of Thrones in there. Without the murder or the incest. I saw a lot of penises and they’re all gross. Truly, it makes no sense that we like them. Kent has a really weird penis and I still married him! And we have sex every Friday night—”

  “WE KNOW,” Amy and I shout together. I’ve never met someone with a regularly scheduled sex life that’s coordinated with their TV schedule, and frankly, it’s starting to ruin TV and sex for me. I just imagine Kent lying in bed, holding the remote control . . . okay, that’s enough.

  “Really, I was on Reddit, and there are so MANY strange penises out there,” Amy agrees. “Like, what if he has priapism?”

  “Has what?”

  “Priapism,” Amy reads from her phone, “is a prolonged erection lasting hours or even days.”

  “Sounds like a bonus. Good for him.”

  “What if he has penile psoriasis?”

  “That’s purely aesthetic. Just wrap it up and pretend you never saw it.”

  “Peyronies disease: a condition that causes erections to be curved.”