Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  “Just curve with it!” I shout. “Use your imagination!”

  “One in five million men are born with diphallia: two penises!”

  “Again, Amy, that’s a bonus.” I hand her the beer she forgot about while she scoured the depths of the Internet for nightmare material.

  “Kent’s a never-hard,” Kiki says, and Amy puts down her phone. Kiki meets my eyes in the bathroom mirror, where I begin applying lipstick to prevent myself from interrupting her. “He never gets fully hard,” she explains, “so I just kind of”—for this part, she uses hand gestures I hope to never see her use again—“fold it up, and jam it in, and that gets the job done. But at least he’s circumcised!”

  Amy slams the rest of her beer, eyes bulging.

  SOMEWHERE UNDER A PILE OF SWEATER DRESSES THAT I SINCERELY hope will not be donated anywhere and will instead just rot in a landfill like they should, Kiki has spotted something black and tight. She holds it up like a trophy. A tiny trophy. It looks like it might fit Jane. It’s perfect.

  “That?” Amy scrambles across her bed, trying to wrestle it away from Kiki. “That’s an old Halloween costume from college. I think I was a slutty Harry Potter?”

  I don’t know where Amy learned the definition of “slutty,” but I’d like to buy her a dictionary the next time I’m at a thrift store because she looks about as slutty as a nun once we convince her to try on that dress. It would be pretty hot, but bunched up under the slick black fabric is . . . a bra? No. A bra is supposed to just hoist up your boobs, to display them in their best possible form. This flesh-toned monstrosity covers too much surface area to possibly be a bra. I can only assume it’s something she needs to wear for religious purposes?

  “Do you have, like, a sexy bra? I have a sexy bra that I wear on Fridays only. I put it on right before Blue Bloods, and it comes off when the credits roll.”

  Amy looks . . . confused, and not by Kiki’s Blue Bloods kink. “This is my sexy bra,” she says. “Look, it unhooks right at the top, for easy access.” Amy is doing some sort of shimmy that she believes to be sexy, and Kiki looks like she’s about to cry.

  “Amy Louise Mitchell—I don’t know your middle name, but this is a middle name situation—that is not a sexy bra, that is a nursing bra!” Kiki lowers her voice. “Are you . . . still nursing? Because sometimes Bernard still wants to, and I don’t know if I should just let him?”

  I take it back: I’m not a good friend. I’m a fucking incredible friend. Because Carla Dunkler doesn’t leave the house without a spare bra and panties. I don’t know where the night is going to take me, and I like to be prepared. But tonight, it isn’t about me. It’s about Amy dusting off the cobwebs, using that vag before she loses it. And she needs this deep-plunge, maximum-push-up bra more than I will. I wear all my bras two cup sizes too small because I like a pillowy cleavage, something dense and inviting, something that says to men, “Wouldn’t you like to put your face right here?” On Amy, my bra looks like it does on the models at the store: it lifts, it separates, it turns her mom boobs into two perfect globes.

  “Amy Fucking Mitchell,” I gasp, “you’re gonna catch a D tonight.”

  I PICKED THE FANCIEST BAR IN OUR AREA CODE. IT’S DARK IN a fancy way, not a trashy way, and it’s filled with guys who get biweekly paychecks and paid vacation.

  I almost feel bad for these men. Amy isn’t sexy, she’s undeniably hot. I feel like I’m unleashing a man-killing robo-hottie on all these boring suburban guys in their flat-front khakis. I briefly consider packing her back up and taking her home and sparing them the pain, but then she opens her mouth.

  “How funny! Their menu says drinks are twenty-five dollars. Typo much?” Amy laughs.

  Kiki joins in. “That’s, like, two hours’ worth of babysitting! Yeah, right!”

  “Actually, it’s right. That’s what drinks cost now when you’re not at a bar with health code violations.”

  I probably should have started Amy off somewhere a little less intense, but if you’re trying to meet a man you want to use solely for sexual pleasure? Your best bet is always the darkest bar with the most expensive drinks. It takes somewhere between forty-five seconds and a full minute before Amy is swarmed by boring, standard-issue white men. Kiki and I are gently shoved farther and farther away from her until we’re on the other side of the bar, observing her from a distance. I feel like parents must feel when they drop off their kid at college: like Amy is all grown up now, and I can only hope that in our time together, I have given her the tools she needs to succeed.

  Watching Amy talk to these guys, I know that any of them would be a good practice ride for her. They’ve got sensible side parts and think that Under Armour polo shirts are “going out” clothes. I’m willing to bet that 50 percent of them use their mom’s birthday as an ATM PIN. They are all sensible, the male equivalents of a Honda Accord.

  Kiki can barely contain her excitement. About Amy. About being out in public. About life in general. Every ten seconds, she’s pointing out a new guy that Amy could bang. Everyone she picks out looks like Kent: boring, blond, and like he has a basement filled with bodies and/or model trains. Possibly both. “I’m so excited for Amy!” she shrieks. “Kent just might get a special treat tonight. If he plays his cards right, I’ll let him keep the TV on and I’ll get on top.”

  I’m trying to unimagine the idea of Kiki jamming Kent’s soft penis inside of her when she gasps and points toward Amy. Our little lady had reeled in someone new. And not a boring Kent lookalike. No, Amy was always too big-time for that shit. I should have known. She’s going right for the white whale of McKinley.

  I feel like my panties could burst with pride. Like my vagina is ready to live vicariously through her.

  Amy Mitchell, who has only seen one penis in her entire life? She’s about to bang Jesse.

  23

  Amy

  Being at this bar makes me feel lonelier than I’ve ever felt in my life. Who do I think I am, sifting through a group of guys like they’re objects? Why am I dressed like a college sophomore who just got her first fake ID, and why am I pretending to laugh at everything these guys say? They are in no way deterred by how often I look at my phone, either. And I’ve been constantly looking at my phone because my mother is bombarding me with text messages about Mike, including photos from our wedding. Or, photos she took of our wedding photos, which are framed and hanging in her living room. I can see her reflection in the glass.

  These guys don’t even notice that they’re talking to the top of my head while I try to fend off my mother’s text messages.

  I realize that if I want to disengage from future conversation, I have to be forthright and honest.

  “I should go call my kids,” I shout over the music whenever a new guy approaches me. It works. “Yeah!” I say for good measure, as they look around for another option, “I gave birth to two kids. Vaginally. No medication, either! I felt every tear!”

  Finally alone, I find an open couch. An entire couch, all to myself. I wish I’d brought my Kindle; it would have been nice to catch up on some reading.

  “IS THIS SEAT TAKEN?”

  Jesus H. Christ, really? I’ve been alone for approximately ten seconds.

  I’m ready to tell this guy that I have a highly communicable skin disease when I realize . . . I know him. Or, I’ve met him. I want to know him. Or I at least want to know what it feels like to have his naked body pressed against mine.

  “Hi . . . Jesse, right?”

  Every single part of me lights up at once when he sits next to me. His thigh is touching mine, and I swear to God I could orgasm just from that contact alone.

  “I’m glad to see you!” he shouts over the music. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” I scream back.

  He shrugs, and gestures to a group of men I assume are his friends, who are clustered around a group of women who are definitely pretending that these guys are funnier than they are.

  I nod and
gesture toward where I imagine Carla and Kiki are. It’s so dark in here, I wish I’d brought my glasses.

  I don’t think the bar got quieter, but there’s something about Jesse that makes it easier for all the noise to just fade into the background. I’ve never had someone be so interested in me. I’ve never been so interested in anyone. I want to know everything about him. I want to know about his dead wife, and how he raises a little girl on his own. I want to know what his most vivid childhood memory is and how he takes his coffee.

  And he wants to know about me. Me. He wants to know what I studied in college, and how I ended up working at a coffee startup. He doesn’t ask me about how I “do it all” or “work-life balance” or any other question that implies it’s strange for a woman to both hold a job and parent.

  And I’m sure I’m violating every single flirting rule ever written, but I tell him. I don’t feel a need to be mysterious or coy. When he asks what book I could read for the rest of my life, I tell him it’s the one about a mama bunny who tells her baby bunny why he’s the most special baby bunny in the whole world. I’m embarrassed, but Jesse doesn’t laugh. His deep brown eyes get wider and he says, “Oh! I love that one! I cry every time the mama bunny says, You may be a big boy soon, but you’ll always be my baby bunny. I shed actual tears.”

  I cry at that part, too. I cried the first time I read it out loud, when Dylan was two days old and slept through the entire thing. And I’ve cried through it every time since, even though it’s been sitting on the shelf in Jane’s room for at least five years now.

  “This is a weird thing to say, but you know my wife died, right? I never know who knows and who doesn’t, and I never know how to bring it up without ruining the moment.”

  “I know,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know anything other than that she died. I’m sorry.”

  This is where an awkward silence should go, but our silence is already comfortable.

  “So,” he says, “do you have a dead spouse you’d like to tell me about on your night out?”

  That’s my cue to tell this perfect young widow about the demise of my marriage. Which I’m pretty sure is over, given that Mike hasn’t even texted me since I kicked him out. Jesse either isn’t judgmental or has a very good poker face, because even after I give him a play by play of discovering Mike’s digital affair, he’s still listening. Not just hearing my words, but listening, with his whole body.

  “God, Amy,” he says, not breaking eye contact, “that sounds like a nightmare.”

  “Anyway!” I say sarcastically. “Cheers to fucking up our kids!”

  “Amy,” he says, smiling, “we’re all fucking up our kids. But you’re a really, really good mom.”

  Never in my life have I heard a sexier sentence come out of a man’s mouth. My head turns off, and my body takes over. I want this guy more than I want the appetizer platter that was just delivered to the table next to us. I want his pretty mouth all over me. Or at least on my mouth. Sure, it’s been over a decade since I had a first kiss, but how hard can it be? Nothing is hotter than two parents making out in public, right? I’m going for it. I bite my lip, I tilt my head. I let my hand reach for the collar of his shirt and—thunk—that is the sound of my face smashing against Jesse’s. I wasn’t sure if I should go left or right, and I changed direction halfway through, and I think I grazed Jesse’s cheek with my incisor. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I bit his face.

  “I am so sorry!” I blurt out.

  Jesse laughs and rubs his cheek. “It’s obviously been a while since either of us has kissed anyone. Maybe we should try that again?”

  I nod, smiling so hard I feel like my cheeks might break right off my face. We get it right the second time.

  And the third time . . .

  * * *

  To: McKinley Mom Squad

  From: Gwendolyn James

  Subject: Mom Squad Update

  Hello, Ladies:

  The following weeks are a crucial time for our children, and therefore ourselves.

  Fall is a time when the rhythms of life naturally slow down, preparing us for rest and renewal. Let us take our cues from the world around us and continue to embrace the season of change we find ourselves in.

  To that end, I have attached the updated parameters for our classroom Fall Festivities. The document includes updated guidelines on games (per Carly T.’s suggestions), nutrition (including new custom recipes for children on keto-vegan diets), and décor (with Pantone swatches to help create a cohesive brand story across the school).

  Thank you so much for your compliance and your dedication to making this school an incredible place for children to learn and grow.

  In Love and Style,

  Gwendolyn James

  PS—get 20% off my eCourse Fall into Happiness with code GWENDOLYN.

  To: McKinley Mom Squad; Gwendolyn James

  From: Carly T.

  Subject: RE: Mom Squad Update

  Thanks so much, Gwendolyn, for acknowledging the seriousness of BINGO and Scavenger Hunts as gateways to gambling, and a slippery slope when it comes to our children.

  To: Carly T.

  From: Hannah R.

  Subject: RE: RE: Mom Squad Update

  Have we fully considered the implications of eliminating BINGO from school celebrations? Generations of people have enjoyed this game, and it helps our younger children with number and letter recognition, hand-eye coordination, and time management.

  Just my thoughts!

  To: Hannah R.

  From: Carly T.

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: Mom Squad Update

  Thank you for your email, Hannah. While I like you as a friend, I do think we fundamentally disagree about childhood development. I’d like to put a pin in this conversation until it can be moderated in a face-to-face discussion with a member of the McKinley faculty.

  24

  Principal Burr

  867.

  I always thought I’d retire someplace like Arizona or Florida. Twenty-some years in Illinois means that I’ve earned the right to bake my bones wherever I please, in either a godforsaken desert or a godforsaken swamp. But I’ve been looking at places in Arkansas lately, and I have to say the price is right. For just a fraction of what it costs to live in Scottsdale, I could have a turnkey townhouse on the edge of the Ozark Mountains, where it’s possible to golf at least six months of the year. One of the communities has a hospital right on the premise, so you can just die on site without wasting money on an expensive ambulance ride.

  Jan says no way, she did not spend twenty-something years on her feet as a nurse to retire in hillbilly country. But Jan also spent the last twenty years spending her little heart out buying diamond-like necklaces on TV, so I don’t think Jan understands the financial reality of retirement.

  “SIR?” MY SECRE— ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT ALWAYS ANNOUNCES himself before he knocks, which makes absolutely no sense. Rick was hired by the school board after Gwendolyn noted there was a gender disparity in our workforce here at McKinley. “Our children need more positive male role models,” she insisted. I agree, but Rick? Rick can’t be a role model, he isn’t old enough. The kids do seem to love him, though. Maybe because he looks like a second-term eighth grader?

  To hide all my web surfing, I found a desktop image that looks like my email inbox. If anyone ever catches me off-guard, I just press “command H” and all the windows disappear, leaving only a photo of a full email inbox. You learn all kinds of tricks when you’ve been doing the same job for over two decades. Rusty the janitor used to hide his whiskey in an emptied bottle of bleach on his cleaning cart. It worked for years, apparently, but all it takes is one mix-up and the school needs to find a new janitor.

  “Sir.” Rick’s eyes seem to be rolling wildly. Is he having a seizure? “Gwendolyn James is here to see you.”

  I have just enough time to hit command H before Gwendolyn pushes Rick aside and strides into my office in a blur of blond hair and heavy perfume.

  “P
rincipal Burr,” she says, coolly, “we need to talk.”

  THE SECRET TO TALKING WITH GWENDOLYN IS APPEARING TO write down whatever she is saying. The other secret is to make sure she doesn’t see what you’re writing, because after twenty-eight minutes of her monologue, your mind is going to wander and you’re just going to start making your to-do list. I straighten some papers on my desk, including the credit card statement I meticulously review every month, because at this stage in the game, every penny spent is a penny we don’t have to spend in retirement.

  Usually when Gwendolyn wants to meet with me it’s because she’s discovered a new potential allergen in our school or because she wants to make sure the kids have access to aura cleansing at least once a week.

  This time, the problem seems to be something else. Some lady named Amy Mitchell?

  I’ve never even heard of Amy Mitchell, which means I like her. Gwendolyn, I gather, does not like Amy Mitchell. Mitchell’s list of offenses includes:

  Insolence

  Disrespect

  Something about the bake sale

  Look into Alabama coastline—more bang for your buck than Arkansas?

  Call Jan—$348 in charges to the Discover card this month.

  The problem with Amy, Gwendolyn explains, is that she is mediocre and fine with it. Further, Amy has two children at McKinley, who will likely absorb all her shortcomings and then spread those shortcomings to other children, and then McKinley won’t be a school that is known for excellence but for mediocrity.

  I make what I hope is meaningful eye contact with Gwendolyn at the appropriate times but otherwise let her continue uninterrupted. Gwendolyn is not unlike our kindergartners. Sometimes they just need to scream at the top of their lungs to get it out of their systems. Sometimes Gwendolyn needs to just sit in my office and present a PowerPoint indictment to get it out of her system.

  But even after she snaps her laptop shut, Gwendolyn doesn’t look satiated.

  “This woman,” she says, “is a problem.”

  “I see,” I reply, though I truly didn’t see at all what she was talking about.