Seasons-inspired changing room with baby bidets and Egyptian cotton, rosewater-scented wipes individually handed to me by a gloved bathroom attendant, but three days ago I almost gagged changing Aubrey on a sticky, crusty monstrosity with broken straps, soiled with what I HOPED was dried prune baby food. I did my best to clean the biohazard with wipes and hand sanitizer, but really?
Sometimes it feels like moms are supposed to be invisible in society. Seen but not heard. We’re supposed to quietly and quickly go about our task of raising perfectly mannered, groomed Gap babies who speak four languages before they’re six without distracting the rest of the world from their important work.
I took one more heaping spoonful of peanut butter before replacing the lid and closing the pantry door. How nice would it be to live in a world that actually considers mothers? In Sweden, everyone takes care of everyone else’s babies. Seriously. I read somewhere that when parents go to cafés or restaurants, they just leave their strollers outside by the door on the sidewalk, knowing that if the baby cries or needs help, passersby will jump right in and breastfeed or whatever. That sure beats feeling like every peep your baby makes in public is a capital crime.
I’ve watched way too many episodes of Law & Justice to put my faith in a stranger on the street, but it kind of sounds like paradise. The last (and only) time we took Aubrey out to eat, I ended up standing outside the restaurant bouncing her around while she screamed and tried to buck out of my arms like a wild pony. I ended up eating my cold eggplant parm out of a Styrofoam box in the kitchen at midnight. Good times.
My train of thought was interrupted by a baby yell. Was that Aubrey? I listened again. Nothing. Lately, I’d been experiencing phantom cries—thinking I heard Aubrey make noise when she hadn’t. David thinks I’m losing it. He’s not wrong.
Oh, wait, there was that sound again. Definitely Aubrey. I guess the dishes will have to wait.
9:30 P.M.
I was lying in bed next to David, who was sleeping soundly. Instead of joining him in dreamland, I had Emily’s book propped open with one hand, and my phone’s flashlight in the other, illuminating the page.
So far, the book was everything I expected. It only took half a chapter to make me feel like crap. Inspired crap, but crap.
Motherhood can be a joyful experience if you allow it to be. Too many moms spend their days in tense anger or regret, which is then energetically transmitted to their children.
Good to know. I’ve been frying Aubrey’s heart via my toxic gamma rays.
As a mother, you are the gatekeeper of your child’s health. It’s up to you whether their bodies are filled with preservatives and chemicals, or nourished with homemade broths and fresh-from-the-oven grain-free breads.
I ran downstairs, flipped on the light and grabbed the Funny O’s that Aubrey gobbles up from her high chair every morning. I turned the box around to read the label.
Whole grain oats. That’s good. Oats grow in fields under sunlight and in the fresh air.
Modified corn starch. Okay, well corn is a vegetable. Modified. I tried not to picture Aubrey growing an extra hand out of her forehead.
Sugar. Salt.
Are babies supposed to eat this? I vowed to myself to spend the extra dollar on the organic ones next time. I guess the book was working. Sitting down on the couch I continued reading.
Motherhood and meal preparation go together like peanut butter and jelly.
Note to self, I thought. Learn to love cooking.
If June Cleaver were to enter my kitchen right now, she’d wonder two things...
How does someone with such poor culinary skills make such a terrible mess?
—and—
Where is that smell coming from?
To address the first query, people who have well-below-average cooking skills make bigger messes because, much like intoxicated folks, they are confused and disoriented. For example, last month I felt ambitious after watching a FoodTV episode about Eastern cooking and tried to make curry. I remember hearing that in India, they always stir-fry the spices to bring out the flavors. My interpretation of this step involved burning the spices in oil until they were a greasy, black, charred mess that not even cubed chicken, chickpeas and coconut basmati rice could save.
It was a very sad, very bitter stew.
David did his classic, head-cocked-to-one-side smile-frown before saying, “No, no, it’s good, just...strong.” He choked down another bite before gulping his entire glass of water in eight seconds. I think he was starting to sense how close to the edge I was, and was afraid to hurt my feelings lest I dissolve into a puddle of tears. Good. He’d always been good about picking up on my feelings. Needless to say, he didn’t pack the leftovers for lunch the next day.
* * *
Three hours after my disastrous curry dinner, the kitchen still looked like a culinary crime scene. Almost every pot, mixing bowl and wooden spoon was out, vegetable trimmings were still on the counters and the sink was overflowing with dishes.
It’s tragic that such chaos birthed such bland food, and it’s a downright crime and shame that cooking must always be followed by cleaning.
Now, to answer the second question. What’s that smell?
The odor June would have taken exception to is coming from under the counter. Six weeks ago, when I was feeling particularly roosty and productive, I joined a Facebook group of homesteaders. These are people who don’t believe in grocery stores and try to live off the land as much as possible, in case civilization collapses. I just wanted to learn how to make bread.
One of the members told me about how she grows potatoes in her crawlspace. Despite the fact that I am barely able to nurture a human child, I decided to try this form of indoor gardening in the darkness of a floor-level kitchen cabinet.
The result was a gallon of rotten potato goo. My “starter spuds” melted into slop and seeped into the wood. I’ve tried bleach and vinegar, and I aired out the cabinet for weeks but the putrid smell still lingers. Would it have killed the potatoes to at least turn into vodka?
Earlier this afternoon, I made the mistake of hopping onto Emily Walker’s Instagram to get a bit of dinner inspiration. Do you know what she made for her family tonight? Roasted rosemary organic chicken on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes with a side of sautéed baby spinach and crushed cashews. The photo looked like it was pulled right out of a gourmet cooking magazine. Even her tablecloth was fancy. My heart sank a little. There was no way I could do that with Aubrey crying on my hip, clawing at my neck like a gremlin. How did Emily do it? I consider grilled cheese with sliced red bell peppers a gourmet meal.
I let out a sigh and looked around the dark living room, as if help was in one of the corners cluttered with Aubrey’s toys. Sensing no woodland fairy was going to pop out of nowhere and fix my life, I sat down on the couch and my hand settled on something hard. My laptop. I went onto Emily Walker’s website, hoping to find an easier recipe for tomorrow, but instead saw a teaser link to a “special announcement” on the homepage.
Are you ready, mommies? the teaser read. I clicked the link.
To celebrate her book, she was launching a program
