Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  I was hoping to kick in the front door at Amy’s house for dramatic effect, but Kiki opened it before I had the chance. The house was a goddamn mess, but Amy and Kiki had been sitting in a clean kitchen having a Lifetime Movie moment together. I kid you not, they were each drinking a mug of herbal tea. I have never seen someone do that in real life. It was disturbing. Didn’t these bitches know we had somewhere to be?

  “Did you hear?” Amy asks, looking like a dog just waiting to be kicked again.

  “Yeah, Amy. I heard. Everyone heard. Your life sucks. But I know for a fact that it was Gwendolyn who had those drugs planted in Jane’s locker.”

  Amy hesitates. She’s clearly not as shocked by this as I am.

  “What difference does it make?” she asks, and I want to shake her.

  “It makes a huge difference! Gwendolyn is a psycho bitch and it’s time to take her down. It’s election night. Put down your hot grass water and put on a bra. Or—no, don’t wear a bra. But do something with your hair.”

  Amy shakes her head and takes another sip of her weird tea.

  “I’m out, Carla. I’m done.”

  I fucking hate quitters. Unless it’s me who is quitting, in which case, get the fuck off my back. I hate when people like Amy quit. Because the world is filled with terrible, talentless idiots like Gwendolyn James who never quit, who just roll on through life, never second-guessing their place in the world. Amy can’t quit. Quitting is for dads and kids with asthma.

  “Who in their right mind would vote for me? My kids left me, my husband left me, my dog left me? I got fired! I’m a failure as a mother, a wife, and a professional.”

  I’ll admit that she made a compelling argument, but I’m not done yet.

  “Amy, I don’t know shit about your job. I get my coffee at the gas station and, sometimes, I use a cup I find outside to claim a free refill. I’m not proud of that, but there, it’s out there. You might be a failure as a wife, or a . . . whatever you do for a job. But as a mother? Hell no. You’re the best mother I’ve ever fucking seen. No offense, Kiki. Amy, you make your kids eat salad. You compliment them and you mean it. You wait until they’re asleep before you get high . . .”

  Kiki raises her hand. “Carla, most moms do those things.”

  “Well, then most moms are fucking awesome. The point is, Amy. The only big fuckup you’ve made is that you quit trying. Moms don’t get to quit. You know why?”

  Kiki raises her hand again. “Because we have low self-worth and believe our value as a human is correlated with our willingness to suffer for those we love?”

  “What? No. It’s because we love our kids. We love those stupid, ungrateful, selfish little sponges, no matter how much of our money, time, energy, and food they take up. We love them so fucking much we’d do anything for them.”

  Amy rolls her head, cracking her neck audibly. “But I can’t win the election, Carla!”

  For someone who is allegedly smart, Amy is dumb as fuck. No wonder she got fired.

  “A-my. This is not about winning. This is about standing up to the heinous bitch who fucked with your little girl. It’s not about you winning. It’s about the symbolism of you, rising up like Britney Spears post-2007. It’s about you saying, ‘Yeah, I lost everything, and shaved my head, and I fought someone with an umbrella. But I’m back, bitches. I’m here, and I’m going to secure a residency in Las Vegas and date a bunch of hot young backup dancers,’ okay?” This is good stuff. Tony Robbins–level stuff. Dr. Phil–level stuff. I don’t even know where it came from, but it keeps pouring out of me.

  “Did Britney give up, Amy? Did she? I don’t think she did. And if she were here today? I think she’d tell you that you need to stand up and fight. You need to fight on the playground. In the cafeteria. In the parking lot of a Trader Joe’s. Because that’s what women do, Amy. That’s what moms do. We protect our young.”

  Amy is showing signs of life. I’m getting through to her. Kiki looks confused. I sometimes forget that she doesn’t have a lot of cultural references outside of the Bible and whatever is on the PBS kids app.

  “So, Amy. I’m asking you this: Will you come with us to the McKinley auditorium and body-slam this bitch or what?”

  Amy nods, chugging the rest of her tea and slamming the mug down.

  “Let’s fucking do this.”

  39

  Principal Burr

  I’d forgotten it was election night. I’ve gotten really good at selective blindness. I can walk through the school all day and not read a single flyer or poster. They all blend together into a cheap sort of wallpaper, and honestly, once you’ve seen one fifth grader’s “Don’t Do Drugs” poster, you’ve seen them all. That assignment makes me so uncomfortable. It’s not that I want fifth graders doing drugs—I mean, Amy Mitchell’s daughter is a wake-up call for all of us—I just think it’s strange to make ten-year-olds sign a pledge saying that they’ll never do any drugs. Ever? Not even when you’re on the cusp of retirement and you find that a few puffs help ease the anxiety provoked by your wife’s constant inflow of Amazon boxes? Not even when you’re in college, and you’re not really sure what it was that you smoked, but you do know that it made you feel like a superhero for at least an hour? Never is a big promise to make. It just seems like we’re setting them up for failure.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Burr.” The sound of Gwendolyn’s voice gives me a physical reaction, like when you walk through someone’s fart cloud in a hallway. I was barely out the front door, and she and her henchmoms were in formation on the front step, carrying posters and red, white, and blue bunting.

  “How nice of you to offer to help us set up for the election,” she simpers. “I do believe that tonight’s win will make this the first three-peat victory in McKinley PTA history, is that right?”

  She’s right. I’d hoped that Amy Mitchell would be able to eke out a victory, or at least shake Gwendolyn’s confidence, but it hasn’t happened. I’m actually glad Amy hasn’t shown up. It would be embarrassing to everyone to watch her lose after the school year she’s had. Gwendolyn shoves a box of T-shirts emblazoned with her own signature into my arms.

  “Here,” she says, “make sure every mom in the crowd is wearing one of these.”

  THE McKINLEY ELECTION PROCESS IS SIMPLE: INTERESTED candidates are invited onstage to make their candidate statement. It’s nothing formal—just a few words—and then the votes are cast. We used to count them by hand, but now they just text in their vote and we know instantly who the winner is. The last two elections have been a landslide. Last year, Gwendolyn got 97 percent of the vote, with 3 percent going to write-in candidates like “Did I do this right?” “How do I vote?” and “Is this working?”

  This year, Gwendolyn didn’t just bring T-shirts and bunting and posters. She brought her own lighting specialist, a pyrotechnics expert (a nice enough guy, named Jed, who assured me that indoor fireworks were the hot new thing), and a “glam squad.” Her presentation, she reminded me, had been developed in partnership with her friends at TED. Before we took the stage, I saw her checking the crowd nervously. Was she searching for Amy? Had Mitchell gotten to her?

  “Burr!” Gwendolyn barks the moment the clock strikes seven o’clock. “It’s showtime. Let’s go.” A few parents are still streaming in—nothing starts on time in a school—but Gwendolyn gestures to her friends in the back, who slam the doors shut. “Now,” she growls, and pushes me onto the stage.

  40

  Kiki

  I told Kent that I was going to night church with my friends, and he bought it! He didn’t look too pleased, but I reminded him that Bible study helps me feel closer to God, and being closer to God turns me on, and that seemed to work. It probably didn’t hurt that the kids had already been fed and bathed, and the only thing he had to do was read stories and get them into bed.

  “Don’t be late,” he said, kissing me on the cheek as I left.

  I’d only just arrived at Amy’s when he first texted me:

  K
ENT: Where are the diapers??

  I breathed deeply.

  ME: Still in the twins’ room.

  ME: Right under their changing table.

  Twenty minutes later:

  KENT: Clara is hungry. Didn’t u feed them?

  ME: She can have a snack.

  Thirty minutes later:

  KENT: The twins are crying.

  KENT: They want you.

  KENT: Kiki??

  ME: Poor babies! Tell them I love them and so does Jesus!

  KENT: Now Clara is crying.

  Carla was right: moms don’t quit. We just keep going. A few months ago, every single person in our family got the flu at the same time. It was horrifying: as soon as one person was done puking, someone else would start. I puked in the washing machine when I was putting Bernard’s sheets in the wash for the third time that day. You would think throwing up in the washing machine is easy, you just turn it on and wash it away. But it doesn’t work that way. Little bits and pieces stay in the washer. Kent’s undershirts are now a weird green-pink color. I never told him why. And I sometimes find half-digested corn in a pocket. Clara threw up in the bathtub while I was washing puke off her and the twins.

  The only person who wasn’t sick was Kent, and he spent the weekend at a hotel near his work, because he didn’t want to risk being infected. At the time, I thought, Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. But looking back, I think, Wait, does it? Does it make sense to leave your wife, crawling on her hands and knees through a battleground of bodily fluids, just so you don’t have to miss a day of work? It’s worth noting that Kent isn’t a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. He works in insurance. Surely in a pinch they can manage a day or two without him.

  I’d forgotten entirely about that weekend until this moment. Maybe it’s Carla’s driving. We’ve been careening around corners and through red lights, and there doesn’t appear to be any safety belts in the backseat. I’ve been doing my best to stay upright, but I’ve been rolling around like a marble.

  My phone buzzes again. It’s my HONYDO app, with a reminder from Kent. He’ll need his socks and underwear ironed tonight when I get home. It buzzes again. And he needs his lunch packed.

  Carla catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay back there, cupcake?” she asks.

  My phone rings as Carla takes a hard left, and I slam against the right side of the car.

  “Hi, honey!”

  In the background, I can hear all four children screaming bloody murder. “Kiki? Kiki!” Kent is panicked.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Not really. The kids are losing their s-h-i-SHIT! Bernard! Don’t bite! Kiki, our kid is a biter!”

  “Kent, I’m with my friends. You can’t show weakness. Just tell them it’s time for bed and get them in the routine: books, teeth brushed, bed. Done.”

  In the background, something falls to the ground. Probably Clara. She’s not coordinated enough to climb onto the counters, but she doesn’t let that stop her.

  “Kiki, I need you home, now.” I look in the rearview mirror and see Carla’s eyes beaming their confidence into my skull. Amy is looking over her shoulder, giving me an encouraging look. I love these two women. They have my back. Shouldn’t my husband have my back? I return my attention to my phone, which I hold in front of my face as I breathe in deeply.

  “You need me home? I need you to fucking get your shit together, Kenton. You’re a dad. Not a babysitter. These are our kids. So brush their teeth. Read to them. And get them the fuck to sleep. Because Mama’s out for the night. BYE, BITCH!”

  I hit the red button just as Carla hit the gas, and we speed through another red light.

  MY PARENTS ALWAYS TOLD ME THAT EARLY IS ON TIME AND on time is late and late is unacceptable. Still, rules are rules and Carla is approaching the one-way on Sycamore as if it’s a two-way. “Carla. Carla. CARLA!” Amy is screaming in the front seat, but Carla just grits her teeth and takes that forbidden left turn, ignoring the two do not enter signs on either side of the road. We have just broken a serious rule of the road, but we’ve arrived with three minutes to spare, thanks in part to the fact that Carla pulls her car right onto the front lawn instead of checking the parking lot.

  There are usually a few other stragglers sneaking in late to any school function, but tonight it’s just the three of us, and it appears we have company. Gwendolyn’s goons are standing outside the auditorium doors like security guards in Ann Taylor skirt suits.

  “Sorry, ladies,” one says, and I can tell she is not at all sorry. “Rules are rules.”

  Carla pushes by her, and, though it is completely unnecessary, kicks the door open.

  “I object!” she screams, stumbling forward into the auditorium.

  Every head in the room turns to face us, and the silence is replaced by a wave of murmurs. Onstage, Gwendolyn stares down at us with hate in her heart and fire in her eyes. That part might be the lighting. It’s very intense.

  “Yesssss,” I hear someone whisper, and Carla grabs Amy and me by the hand and leads us up the center aisle toward the stage.

  “Excuse me, bitches!” Carla screams. “The challenger has arrived!”

  41

  Amy

  Principal Burr looks like someone just woke him up from a twenty-year nap. I’m suddenly very aware of how quiet the room is, and very aware that I should have at least sprayed some dry shampoo in my hair before we left. It feels like it takes a hundred years for us to reach the stage, where Gwendolyn is standing still as a statue, her face frozen in what she probably thinks is a smile.

  Principal Burr scrambles back onstage to take the microphone from Gwendolyn.

  “A-Amy Mitchell is here, everyone! Just in time for her candidate statement!”

  He pushes the microphone into my sweaty, shaking hand. Candidate statement? What is that, a speech? God, I hate speeches. At least when I did one at my party, I had the comfort of drunkenness to calm my nerves. I really wish I’d smoked one of Jane’s joints before getting here.

  “Actually,” Gwendolyn snips, leaning into me to speak into the mic, “she’s late for her statement. We’re on an agenda. Maybe next year?”

  From below, I hear a voice call out “HELL NO!” Carla has somehow commandeered two front-row seats for her and Kiki, and she’s standing on one of them.

  “Let her talk, G!”

  Shouts rise from around the room, and Gwendolyn primly holds up her hands in surrender.

  “Okay,” she purrs, “I am merely trying to uphold the standards of election decorum. Amy, you have the floor.”

  My heart is beating so loudly I’m sure the microphone can pick up on it.

  “Hi,” I say, and my voice does that weird froggy thing that happens when you least want it to. I cough a little bit. Below, I can feel Kiki beaming love at me from her big eyes.

  “Hi, again. I’m Amy Mitchell. For now. I might go back to my maiden name, actually. Yeah, I’m getting divorced. You probably knew that. You know a lot of stuff about me. Or you think you do. Lotsa rumors going around this place, lately.”

  “Yeah!” Carla shouts.

  “A lot of you probably think I’m a pretty bad mom,” I continue, “and you know what? You’re right. Sometimes, I’m crazy strict. I threw my son’s iPad out a car window once because he’d snuck it in the car on a ‘no screen day.’ ”

  There’s a smattering of laughter, and my shoulders relax by a few millimeters.

  “Sometimes, I’m ridiculously lenient. One time? I let that same kid stay home because . . . get this . . . his thumb hurt. It was a video game injury.”

  More laughter.

  “Sometimes I say stuff that’s so crazy, I can’t believe that I’m the one saying it. What works for my daughter never works for my son, and just when I think I have it figured out? They grow up just enough that we’re not even playing the same ball game anymore. They’re puzzles that I can’t figure out. So, the truth is, when it comes to being a mom, I have no fucking clue
what I’m doing. And you know what? I don’t think anyone does. I think everyone in this room is a bad mom. And you know why? Because it’s fucking impossible to be a good mom these days. My mom made it to maybe one soccer game, and I was a varsity all-star! And that was normal! Once, I was late for my daughter’s soccer game and I got a text from another mom asking if I was planning on arriving or if she should call Child Protective Services.”

  A groan from the audience. But like, a good one?

  “Can we stop that? Can we stop judging one another for like, five minutes, and all just admit that this shit is hard?! It’s hard, and it all falls on us. This is the PTA, and we call it the Mom Squad I guess because Dads don’t want to be here?”

  Two lone male voices call out from the back, announcing their presence.

  “That’s Kevin and Chase, because of course gay dads are the exception. And that’s messed up! The expectations for dads are beyond low. The bar is so low for them they can roll out of bed in sweatpants, feed the kids a granola bar on the walk to the bus, and be considered exceptional parents. And the standard for us is—what? Artisanal bake sales? Heck no. HELL no. We need dads to step the hell up. And maybe they would, if we expected them to. If we really shared the duties of parenting children equally.”

  For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, but I hear applause. Actual applause. The sound of hands contacting one another repeatedly.

  “I just want our school to be a place where it’s okay to make mistakes. For our kids to know that their value doesn’t depend on their being perfect. And neither does ours. I want our school to be a place where it’s okay to be a bad mom!”

  It’s quiet. Too quiet. Even Carla won’t break this silence.

  Suddenly, to my left, Mary McCloud stands up. She looks hesitant. But when she speaks, her voice is clear and confident.

  “My kid hasn’t had a bath in two weeks!”

  “Good job!” I cheer. “What do you think butt wipes are for? Just butts?!”

  The crowd laughs, and another mom shouts from the back. “I confiscated my teenager’s weed, and then I smoked the shit out of it!”