Kent hangs his coat on his special hanger in our coat closet and puts on his indoor shoes, just like Mister Rogers always did. “I just wanted to come home and see my beautiful wife and my darling children,” he says. “Where are they?”
“They’re napping, Kenton. You know the schedule.”
Kent smiles at me, the kind of smile he uses only on Friday nights. He can’t be serious. It’s daylight, and as an unspoken rule we only ever have sex in total darkness.
Kent is totally serious. He is kiss-me-on-the-lips serious. He pulls my sweatshirt over my head and runs his hands down my body, unhooking my nursing bra—why am I still wearing this???—and grabbing my boobs like he used to in college. I step back, just to make sure that this is Kent and not some sort of sexy intruder.
“I canceled my afternoon meetings,” he explains. “My team can handle a few hours on their own. Plus, I thought you might like the afternoon off from kid duty.”
I would absolutely like the afternoon off from kid duty, but this is also the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my gosh-darn life.
“I’d love the afternoon off,” I say in a voice that I hope sounds sexy, “but first, I’d like to spend some time on . . . you.” That’s sexy, right?
Kent smiles and pulls me closer, kissing me on the mouth with tongue. We fumble our way to the couch, where Kent knocks off the layer of toys with one sexy sweep of his hand, pulling me down on top of him. Instinctively, I grind my hips into him. Usually, it’s like rubbing myself against a half-filled water balloon. But, this time, there’s something hard there. Like, actually hard. Like, a hard penis? Kent moans, breaking our other unspoken rule that we have sex very, very quietly. I unbutton his wrinkle-resistant oxford and pull his crisp white undershirt over his head. I’m just about to stand up and fold them before we really get down to business, but Kent stops me.
“Who cares?” he whispers, sliding his thumbs under the band of my Costco underpants.
I sigh. Groan? I’m about to have sex in the light of day. This is now my ultimate, number one fantasy, way ahead of me getting hit by a car and experiencing some light paralysis.
“Kiki?” Kent says, pulling down my yoga pants. “In case it’s not clear? I want to clearly express that I appreciate you as a partner.”
“That’s great, honey,” I reply, pushing my hips up to meet his, “but naptime’s almost over so let’s get this show on the road.”
49
The Bad Moms Pledge
I, __________________________, agree to the following terms and conditions of Motherhood, which are inevitable and irrevocable. This pledge is not legally binding, but it is karmically binding. Probably.
We run late. Sometimes very late. Look, if we say we’re on the way we haven’t left the house yet and that has to be okay, because getting out of the house is hard enough on your own but when your kid forgets his backpack every single day? We’re trying here.
We let teachers teach and coaches coach. If you’re thinking about being a dipwad about this . . . don’t.
Childhood is a series of failures meant to prepare our children for life. We let our kids fail, and we let them pick themselves back up.
Motherhood is a no-judgment zone, and we hereby reserve all judgment for people participating in reality TV. Joking! We judge each other all the time because we’re still struggling to de-program ourselves from generations of patriarchy! But we judge ourselves most harshly, and we gotta cut that crap out, too.
On our worst days, we are sure we have no idea what we’re doing. Guess what? We don’t! But our kids probably don’t know that. They love us anyway, even though they’ve spent most of their lives with the same view of us as a front-facing phone camera we didn’t know was on.
We’re not just moms. We’re Cool Moms and Earth Moms and Attachment Moms and Detachment Moms. We’re Weird Moms and Old Moms and Young Moms and Single Moms. We’re Gluten-Free Moms and Short Moms and Funny Moms and Gay Moms and Tall Moms and Sleepy Moms.
We are the forgetful Tooth Fairy, the life-makers and gift-givers. We’re the owie-kissers and the snack providers and the butt-wipers. Some days, we’re a walking Kleenex.
We’re Bad Moms. Which is the only damn kind of mom worth being.
Signature and Date __________________________
Author’s Note
True story: I watched the Bad Moms movie on a snowy November night in 2016. I was already a mom and a stepmom, and I was pregnant with my youngest. I laughed so hard at these hilarious female characters that I went into labor. A few years later, I was asked to adapt that same movie into a book. The point is: sometimes dreams come true before you even dream them!
Acknowledgments
I owe some pretty big thanks to Jess Regel and Michelle Weiner and Cait Hoyt and Carrie Thornton. Jeanie Lee, you are a fantastically patient person!
Scott Moore and Jon Lucas are two of the funniest, most generous people I’ve ever worked with. Thanks, dudes. Hannah Meacock Ross is my Motherhood Role Model.
My husband, Matthew, does most of the parenting in our household, and I’m very grateful for that, especially because, like Kiki, he does fold my underwear neatly.
I have never met Kathryn Hahn or Kristen Bell or Mila Kunis, but I held their performances in my mind as I wrote, and now I believe that we are close personal friends (we are . . . not . . . yet?).
I wouldn’t get to be a mom without my kids, who forgive me all my mistakes. Or at least are waiting until their thirties to recap my shortcomings. I love all of you so much, and I love one of you more than the others, but you’ll find out who that is at my will reading.
About the Author
NORA MCINERNY is the author of It’s Okay to Laugh and No Happy Endings, the host of the Terrible, Thanks for Asking podcast, cofounder of the Hot Young Widows Club, and the founder of Still Kickin. She’s proud to be a Bad Mom.
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Copyright
BAD MOMS. Copyright © 2020 by STX Financing, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
FIRST EDITION
Cover art © STX Financing, LLC. All rights reserved.
Digital Edition MARCH 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-290916-9
Version 03052020
Print ISBN 978-0-06-290915-2
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