Confessions Of A Domestic Failure. Bunmi Laditan

for Aubrey, but I’m making just enough for Ella as it is. Sorry.” I could tell she really was sorry, but it didn’t help with the feeling of crushing disappointment. The studies that go around Facebook every fifteen minutes about how babies who aren’t breast-fed grow up with dragon scales covering their entire bodies didn’t help.

      Eight months later I still hate myself just a little every time I scoop that white powder into the bottle. Formula. I’m a formula mom. This wasn’t how I saw it all happening. It’s not that I think formula is evil; I just always pictured myself breastfeeding under a willow at the park, its leaves gently swaying in the warm breeze, onlookers stealing admiring glances at me. Ask me how many admiring glances I get whipping out a nine-ounce bottle at Starbucks. ZERO. One mom even asked—with tears in her eyes, no less—if she could breastfeed my baby for me. As if Aubrey is some malnourished third-world baby on television with flies buzzing around her emaciated body. I may have lied and said that she’s allergic to human milk.

      Oh, and we stopped using the million-dollar-a-can organic formula blend when Aubrey was three months old. Now she’s on the cheap brand stuff. She’s the only eight-month-old I know with zero teeth—probably from all of the trace minerals she’s missing from my malfunctioning mammary glands. Formula. When she drops out of community college, we’ll all know why.

      Yesterday, Emily Walker posted a photo of herself breastfeeding her eighteen-month-old in front of the Eiffel Tower. She’s doing her show live from Paris for her Motherhood Better book tour, and I’m sitting in funky pajamas trying to remember the last time I shaved my armpits.

      Back to the lessons I learned today. So in all of the “confusion” (shorthand for poopy-diaper-ziplock-bag-period-panty-replacement among us moms) I left my copy of Motherhood Better in the bookstore bathroom. I called and they said my copy had been thrown away (an employee complained that its proximity to the baby changing area was unhygienic) but they’re giving me another one free of charge. David is picking it up on his way home from work. I asked him to pick up dinner, too. I’m exhausted from a day thinking about all the ways I’m screwing up his child, and the fridge is practically empty other than chardonnay, string cheese and almost-rotten produce.

      It’s not that I don’t want to run to the store for groceries when Aubrey wakes up, it’s just that leaving the house feels like more trouble than it’s worth.

      If I could ask the entire world one question, it would be: Why does it seem like people hate moms so much? Before anyone could accuse me of overreacting, I’d point out my first piece of evidence: the size of parking spots. Last time I was at the grocery store, as I squeezed my eight-months-postpartum body between millimeters of steel like a human panini, I had to wonder whether whoever paints those lines either...

      Has never seen a human family before.

      —or—

      Despises mothers with the heat of a thousand diaper rashes.

      How hard would it be to paint the white lines two inches farther apart? Would these mom-hater paint despots rather we go around scraping their BMW two-seaters with our minivan doors?

      Is it deliberate fat shaming? Yes, I’ve only lost seven pounds of baby weight (which is weird, because the baby weighed eight pounds, two ounces), but we can’t all be celebrity moms who go straight from hospital gowns to string bikinis.

      And unlike those magical Hollywood moms, I didn’t have a personal chef on call to make me macrobiotic, paleo, organic, fat-free, sugar-free, carb-free (taste-free?) meals every day.

      It probably doesn’t help that the closest thing I get to doing sit-ups is lying on the living room floor lifting my head for sips of Shiraz, but a girl’s gotta live a little. And there’s no way I could quit gluten. Do they know how many carbs it takes to stay awake when you have a baby who sleeps about fourteen minutes a night? A lot. Cutting carbs would make me a bad mother and I have to put my child first.

      I got up and made my way into the kitchen, savoring the silence of nap time. I browsed the pantry for a few seconds before grabbing a jar of chunky peanut butter. After selecting a spoon from the dishwasher, I helped myself to a heaping mountain of peanut-buttery delight.

      “I really should exercise,” I said to no one in particular, my mouth full of sticky goodness.

      Last week Emily had a celebrity trainer on her show. She showed the audience how to lie on their backs and bench press their babies while wearing a hot pink sports bra and matching designer leggings. I was tempted to get on my living room carpet and give it a shot, but I had a premonition of Aubrey puking partially digested milk into my hair. I smelled bad enough without being doused in baby vinaigrette.

      I took another spoonful of peanut butter. Peanuts have protein, right? Protein is important.

      Back to the ridiculous parking spaces. Every time I parked and had to squeeze my jiggly post-baby stomach between vehicles it was just another reminder that I’m not where I should be, body-wise. It’s hard enough getting out of the house with an eight-month-old who only poops when we’re in stores.

      Which led me to...

      Piece of Evidence That The World Hates Moms #2: Public Changing Tables.

      Nobody’s asking for a Four 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