Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  By the time I step down from the couch, I’m mobbed with moms. Someone had flipped the music back on, but all around me is a crush of earnest, slightly (okay, extremely) inebriated faces.

  “I want to be your best friend! Can we be best friends?”

  “Amy Mitchell, you’re the hero we’ve been waiting for!”

  “I will do whatever you tell me to do! You’re my sister. I love you sooooo much!”

  I nod and smile and hug every single mom who comes my way.

  THE PARTY WENT ALL NIGHT LONG LIKE LIONEL RITCHIE. OR, until 11:30 PM, which is basically an all-nighter when you’re a mom or when you’re Lionel Ritchie’s current age. In college, we used to judge the success of a party on how trashed our house was. The best party we ever threw ended with all our living room furniture being burned in the front yard. Tonight was the grown-up version of that party. Someone had beaten the Little Tikes playset to smithereens with what I can only assume used to be a baseball bat, before that too was smashed. Every surface in my house is covered in beer bottles, LaCroix cans, and Dylan’s and Jane’s old sippy cups with a few swallows of wine left in them. Kiki and I are sorting the debris into garbage and recycling while Carla finishes doing whippets out of a can of store-brand whipped cream when a tall, dark figure appears in the doorway.

  “Don’t fucking kill us!” Kiki screams, ducking into a fetal position.

  “I won’t!” the figure screams back, stepping into the kitchen. “Did I . . . miss the party? Carla made it sound like it was raging.”

  Jesse.

  “Jesse!” Carla shouts suspiciously. “So good to see you! Fun party, Amy, see you another time!” Carla grabs a very confused Kiki by the arm and starts for the front door.

  “Bye, Jesse. I like your face and your clothes and your body,” Kiki whispers before Carla spirits her away.

  It was all very natural and not at all uncomfortable for me or Jesse, whose beautiful caramel skin is starting to blush.

  “Should I . . . go?” he asks, in a voice that said he had no intention of going anywhere.

  I shake my head, and feel Jesse’s hands on my hips, pulling me closer to him.

  Our first kiss may have almost given us each a concussion, but it turns out, kissing is like riding a bike. You can forget how to do it, but you’ll get the hang of it after a few tries.

  I feel like someone just offered me a glass of water after wandering through the desert. I feel like a deaf person hearing music for the first time. I feel like a mom finally being treated like a sexual being. Everything is sexy to me in this moment. The feeling of my countertops under my thighs, the way Jesse’s hands move across my hips and up my shirt. I know that Beyoncé and Jay-Z can do it all night long in a kitchen, but I do find the location where I serve dinner to my family to be a little distracting. And I don’t want to be distracted right now, not when Jesse’s mouth is on my neck and I’m pulling off his shirt. I pull away from kissing him and grab him by the hand, pulling him up the stairs behind me.

  Jesse’s body is not what I expected. It’s better. It doesn’t even make sense that someone can be this good-looking. Even his shoulders are hot. Can you be attracted to a shoulder? I would make out with just his shoulder if that were socially acceptable.

  It’s not like Mike’s got a super hairy back, but it’s not like Jesse’s: smooth and lean, and tapered into an actual waist, not just a barrel bod.

  The last time I did this, I was . . . nineteen? Twenty? Twenty. I spent the entire time sucking in my stomach, like having internal organs was a crime and Mike or any other man-child I was with deserved a nymph with a concave stomach. This time, I don’t have time to think about what my body looks like. I’m not embarrassed when Jesse tries to pull down my skinny jeans and they get stuck on my ankles like they always do. I just laugh, and he laughs, and that makes it hotter. All my nerve endings are alive at once, lighting up in every place that Jesse touches, and kisses. We’ve fallen perfectly into sync: my back arches to make room for his hands under my lower back, and he slides off my Target underwear in one pull. My legs make room for him as he kisses down my stomach, running his hands along the stretch marks Jane left on my inner thighs. This is what I want, so badly that I can’t imagine ever wanting anything else. I push my hips up to meet his mouth, and Jesse gets to work.

  And then: kaboom! The kind of eye-rolling, earth-shattering orgasm you don’t think is actually possible until it happens. I’m out of body and inside my body at the same time. I see nothing but stars and the entire meaning of the universe. Over and over and over.

  And just when I think it couldn’t get any better? He speaks the seven most beautiful words in the English language:

  “Can I go down on you again?”

  30

  Carla

  The worst part of being in your mid-to-late thirties (okay mid-forties but looking like your mid-thirties) has to be that a hangover isn’t just an inconvenience, it’s completely debilitating. I know enough not to try to call in sick, since my manager was at the party last night. I considered it, though. I saw her start a wet T-shirt contest with a bunch of the other Fit Moms, so if she started throwing stones, I could toss a few at her glass house.

  Instead, I chug a Diet Mountain Dew, eat two pieces of slightly burned toast, and head out to do my part to beautify America, right after I drop the kid off at school.

  “Oh hey, Mr. Nolan said he emailed you,” Jaxon says as he gets out of the car. “Did you get his email?”

  I freeze. What the shit is going on now? Mr. Nolan must really want to talk to me, and that can’t be good. “Uh, musta gone to my spam? I don’t remember seeing it, bud.”

  Jaxon rolls his eyes.

  “Dude, go! Tell Mr. Nolan if he needs to talk to me, he can come find me.” And I decide not to step foot on campus again.

  When I walk into my treatment room, my first client is already there, tits up, legs spread, a cold sleep mask covering her eyes.

  “Hello,” I coo in my special spa voice. “And what are we doing today?”

  “A bikini wax,” she snaps back. Oh. So this is how it’s going to go.

  “All right. It looks like you’ve been getting French waxes. You don’t have a lot of regrowth, so I’m just going to do some maintenance today, sound good?”

  She sighs. “Fine.” Where have I heard that bitchy voice before?

  When you’ve been in the vagina business as long as I have, you can do a wax with your eyes closed. I don’t go to sleep, but I definitely go into autopilot and before I know it, the job is done.

  “All set,” I say, rubbing a soothing balm over her inflamed vaginal area.

  “Wow,” she says, “thank you so much. I think I fell asleep there for a moment. You’re incredible.”

  “My pleasure,” I say. “Now, I’m sure you know the aftercare instructions, but I just want to remind you that witch hazel is your friend for the next few days: don’t be afraid to soak a pad, pop it in the freezer, and then wear it between two pairs of underwear. It’s weird, but it works.”

  She nodded. “Witch hazel. Got it.”

  I pull the blankets down over her legs and stand up to leave, disappointed to see a giant rock on that left hand. All that pubic hair for a shitty tip.

  THE “MOTHER’S LOUNGE” AT THE SPA IS NEVER OCCUPIED BY the actual McKinley Moms, just by the women who are employed by the McKinley Moms. The nannies who have babies to watch hang out on the couches in the mother’s lounge, because they’ve gotta be ready to run the baby in to breastfeed at regular intervals. Nannies with school-age kids just sit and read or scroll on their iPhones or Skype their families, waiting for their boss to finish her treatments. If you’re wondering, Why would a nanny have to tag along to the spa if there aren’t even any kids for her to watch?, then please excuse me for ruining your innocence when I tell you that the nanny’s job is no longer to look after the children. Instead, it’s a nanny’s job to take care of the rich mom. It’s basically like getting paid to be som
eone’s friend/servant, I guess?

  I fucking love nannies. They’ve got all the best dirt. Did you know that Roman’s parents don’t even live in the school district for McKinley? They use their grandparents’ address, and the nanny drives over there every single day so they can walk out the front door and down to the bus stop, just in case there are any snitches around. Sydney and Kit’s nanny told me that their mom isn’t away on business, she’s away at rehab. For the fourth time. Porn addiction is real. Mostly, I’ve learned that behind every successful white woman is a bunch of underpaid women of various racial backgrounds making her life run smoothly and getting no credit for it.

  I was hoping to use the mother’s lounge for a quick nap before my next wax, but when I walk in, the best couch is already occupied by some chick all snuggled up under one of our weighted anxiety blankets. I try to catch her eye as I pass by so we can talk some shit, but she’s fully locked into whatever she’s got going on her laptop, which has her typing away like a crazed cartoon character.

  I grab one of my sudoku books from behind the fiddle-leaf fig tree and settle into one of the massaging chairs on the opposite wall. If I can’t sleep, I can at least loosen up my muscles and work my brain.

  I’m stuck on page four when a well-manicured hand with one helluva ring on it pushes the door open, followed by a thin, tan body.

  “Oska?! I’ve been looking all over for you. What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  That bitchy voice belongs to Gwendolyn, who also owns the vulva I’d recently been touching. I thought for sure she’d recognize me, if not as one of Amy’s friends then as the woman who was just up close and personal with her labia, but her eyes scanned over me like I was nothing, and landed directly on the nanny, who must be Oska.

  I put my nose in my sudoku and try to turn on my listening ears, but it’s hard. Gwendolyn is so good at whispering, and she’s got her lips practically glued to this poor lady’s ear.

  Oska is what the Hippie Moms would call a natural beauty. Duh, it’s easy to be naturally beautiful when you’re twenty-five and your skin is still rich with collagen and your metabolism can still burn through a bagel like it’s nothing.

  I can make out a few of Gwendolyn’s words. Something about hurting? About pain? If she’s talking shit about my waxing . . . No, she’s talking about someone else.

  “There’s no way for her to charm her way out of that,” Gwendolyn snips, standing up and brushing invisible lint off her expensive-ass workout clothes. “Now bring the Tesla around.”

  I know enough about Gwendolyn to know that whatever she’s plotting, it’s probably as bad as the tip she left me today.

  Gwendolyn James Style

  Winners never quit.

  Quitters never win.

  —UNKNOWN

  It took 37 hours of labor before Gandhi was born. Now, my birth plan called for no more than 20 hours, max, so I was not pleased. I had expected her to arrive the way we had discussed: the morning of her due date. But my stubborn little lady took her time. For over a day, I bounced on a balance ball, soaked in the tub we’d installed just for this purpose, and chomped on ice. My husband and doula begged me to go to the hospital. But I said no. And at 9 at night, our family was complete. You know why? Because I didn’t quit.

  I will never forget the way she looked at me, with total admiration and awe. She may have been just a few minutes old, but she already knew that I was her North Star.

  Our children are watching us. Even before they’re here, they’re absorbing our thoughts, our attitudes, our approach to life. They know when we’ve given up, or when we’re not living up to our potential. When we sell ourselves short, we sell our kids short. Selling our kids short is like selling every kid short. So here’s my promise to you: I’ll never quit. Because your kids depend on me, too.

  In Love and Style,

  Gwendolyn James

  PS—Witch, Please! Do you know the natural soothing properties of witch hazel? My Spooky Season guide to natural beauty is here! Click here for the free PDF download!

  31

  Principal Burr

  854.

  The school board is asking for my five-year plan for McKinley. A five-year plan? What am I, a recent college graduate? My plan is to walk out the door in five years and never look back. What happens in the interim is nobody’s business but my own. I plan to spend five years doing the bare minimum: the kids will be taught; the teachers will be paid. We will, eventually, find a new custodian.

  Recently, Gwendolyn James proposed that we become the First School in Space, and she wasn’t even joking. She told the school board that a school known for innovation (are we?) owes it to the community (do we?) to think out of the box, out of the school, out of the stratosphere (can we?). I know I’ve been wrong about a few things. I’ll admit that in 1999, I did tell the school board that we didn’t need to teach the kids about the Internet because it was just a place for geeks and pedophiles. I stand by that assessment, because the Internet of the moment was little more than AOL chatrooms. But, as has been pointed out ad nauseam on the Facebook page “OK, BOOMER,” I failed to see the merits of the Internet, and the potential it held for developing the education of the future.

  So no, I don’t always have my finger on the pulse of what’s next, but is that really what you want from a principal? Do you really want someone who is obsessed with what the future holds, or someone who is just happy to be here, in the now? A principal who knows every kid’s first name, and dresses up as his “long-lost sister, Brenda” on the last day of school every year? Apparently Brenda is no longer welcome here. One of the parents sent a strongly worded letter to my office telling me that my heteronormativity and homophobia were showing. I was flabbergasted, even more so after Rick explained what those words meant. The bottom line is, as Rick explained to me, that Brenda is problematic, and I will no longer be dressing as a woman to entertain the children.

  “PRINCIPAL BURR?”

  There’s no telling how long Rick stood in my doorway, waiting for me to notice him. I’ve told him a million times, “Just knock,” but he refuses, and instead just stands there, motionless, until I’m startled into noticing him.

  “Mail’s here,” he says, smiling and dropping a modest pile of envelopes onto my desk. Per my preferences, they’ve all been neatly opened with a letter opener, which Rick mistook on his first day for a knife and asked me to remove in the interest of fostering a safe work environment.

  I TAKE MY TIME WITH THE MAIL, AS IT’S A GREAT WAY TO EAT up some of that long afternoon stretch between the lunch hour and the final bell. I read through each credit card offer, noting to once again talk with Jan about her spending habits. I page through the entire Costco magazine and fold down a corner promising a great twist on the classic chicken Waldorf salad.

  And then the phone rings.

  I have a habit of letting calls go to voicemail, but when it’s an unknown number, you have to answer. It could be anyone—what’s more exciting than that?

  “Hello, Principal Burr speaking. How can I be of service to you on this fine day?”

  There’s a pause on the other line, and for a moment I’m disappointed. Is this a butt dial? And then, she speaks.

  “Good afternoon, Principal Burr. I’m a concerned member of the McKinley community.”

  It’s not a voice I recognize, but then again most parents at this school are from the generation that decided phone calls are “intrusive” and routinely ask if they can text me, which they may not.

  “How may I help you, ma’am?” There’s a pause, and I instantly regret using gendered language.

  “Principal Burr, you’re a busy man so I’ll make this quick. We’ve heard rumors that a student at McKinley has been abusing illegal drugs . . . and selling them to other children.”

  I hold the phone away from myself as I groan. Really?! Drugs at McKinley? When I just paid for that Drug-Free Is the Way to Be mural?

  “Does this student druggie have a nam
e?” I ask. There’s a pause on the line.

  “I heard . . . it’s Jane Mitchell.”

  Jane Mitchell? The Jane Mitchell who recently asked for a meeting with the school board so she could review our district’s conservation and recycling program? Then again, she does seem to be pretty high energy. Maybe she’s snorting Adderall in the bathroom like I heard about kids doing on 60 Minutes?

  I’m about to tell my mystery caller that I’ll look into it when I hear a click. Seriously, did telephone etiquette die with Gen X?

  It takes me approximately ten minutes of clicking around on our intranet (which is different from the Internet) before I find our locker directory and another four minutes of scrolling until I reach the center of the alphabet.

  Mitchell, Jane

  Locker 126

  There’s no need to go pulling an A student out of class just yet. I fish around in my junk drawer for the master key ring that holds the keys to every locker, office, and classroom in this building. I slip my shoes back on, grab my coffee cup, and check the clock. I’ve got thirteen minutes. That’s plenty of time for a quick investigation.

  32

  Amy

  The last time we went to therapy—three years ago, maybe—Mike left halfway through the session. Not because that was a planned part of the therapy, but because he’d decided he’d had enough, and that it was a waste of his time. Dr. Karl had said nothing as Mike stood up, and nothing when he shut the door.

  “Is that . . . normal?” I’d asked, knowing that I didn’t want to know the obvious answer. A good rule of thumb is this: If you have to ask if something is normal, it isn’t normal.

  Dr. Karl had made unwavering eye contact with me, playing with the ends of her afro contemplatively.