Confessions Of A Domestic Failure. Bunmi Laditan

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 called the Motherhood Better Bootcamp. Twelve moms would be chosen to be personally mentored by Emily herself, and—get this—at the end of the five-week transformation period the whole group would get flown out to Emily’s home in Napa Valley, California, for three days of wine, rest and relaxation.

      I continued to read. There was more.

      The mom who had the biggest transformation would win $100,000.

      One hundred thousand dollars.

      One thousand dollars, one hundred times.

      I was totally doing it. Not just for me, but for Aubrey. She deserved a great mom. A happy mom. A capable mom. She was too young to care that I had no idea what I was doing now, but what about when she was six or seven? By then she’d be old enough to compare me to the squash-scone-making moms of all her friends. I needed to change before that happened.

      Fingers and toes crossed.

      I clicked through to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp application. I filled in the basic information and then began tackling the harder questions.

      “Why do you want to be accepted?” I resisted the urge to write, “Because I suck at being a mom,” and wrote “To become the mom I know I can be in my heart.” That sounded like something Emily would say.

      It was almost midnight when I finally finished. My hand trembled a little as I pressed the green Submit button.

      A message screen opened.

      Thank you for applying to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp. The chosen participants will be announced next week. Have a beautiful day and don’t forget to sparkle.

      I looked at my phone. It was 12:14 a.m. Yeah, I’ll sparkle tomorrow. Like a zombie dipped in glitter.

       Tuesday, January 22, 5 A.M.

      Aubrey woke up extra early this morning. #SoBlessed. I’d planned on doing a few leg lifts but of course I had to check Facebook and fell right down the rabbit hole.

      What’s Facebook? It’s where moms like me post about how much we love the husbands who annoy the living bejesus out of us, and share expertly edited photos of our kids* and generally talk about our lives like we’re living in an enchanted fairy tale blessed by rainbow angel unicorns. In short, it’s for lying. But I’m addicted.

      * Joy will never admit to this, but I know for a fact that she thickens her kids’ eyelashes in Photoshop—I caught her in the act once.

      Joy (Easton) Thompson

      Status: Ella is LOVING her new BabyBGo Stroller!

      Below the status update was a photo of my dear sister in fitted black yoga gear—the expensive kind, not the cheapies I wear—pushing my adorable niece in a brand-new stroller that cost as much as my laptop. Her cleavage was perfect (nursing). “How is she so tiny?” I wondered, trying to blow up the photo. Maybe I should have tried those post-baby waist cincher things she swears by, but forcing myself into a corset while I was still bleeding post birth felt like a little much. Anyway, what is this, the Renaissance? She looked great, though. I hated her.

      Uncle Grover (yes, her husband, my brother-in-law, was named after a Muppet) must be doing really well. He’s an actuary. I have no idea what that means, and when he talks about his work during family functions I usually picture him dancing on Sesame Street hand in hand with Elmo.

      Note to self: Look up how much actuaries make. I’m super proud