9:30: Kids’ morning nap: clean kitchen, fold laundry
11:00: Check the mail!
11:05: Leave for library
11:15–12:00: Story time
12:05: Drive home
12:30: Lunch
1:00: Kids’ afternoon nap: start laundry, clean living room, check email
3:00: Leave for pickup
3:05: Catch up with Gwendolyn//text??
3:20: After-school snacks
3:30–4:00: Grocery store
5:00: Start dinner
5:30: End dinner
6:00: Clean kitchen
6:30: Baths
7:30: Bedtime routine
8:00: Special time with Kent
8:45: Lights out!!!
It’s 7:07, and I am awake, showered, and have started the coffee. Kent doesn’t need to be awake for thirteen more minutes, so I’m very ahead of schedule, according to my new planner. I draw a clean black line through each of those items. It’s satisfying. Is this me time? Gwendolyn James is always talking about me time, the importance of having “an essential self-care routine for all mamas.” Her Instagram, @GwendolynJamesStyle, is full of wisdom and inspiration. Gwendolyn says that we should start each day with an attitude of gratitude and that our thoughts become things. So, if I think, The twins are going to be really difficult if they don’t nap for at least ninety minutes this afternoon, well, guess what? They will be really difficult if they don’t nap for at least ninety minutes this afternoon! She says that if we aren’t happy with our lives, that has nothing to do with anything or anyone but us. Gwendolyn says that daily meditation is the key to a balanced life. Even her kids meditate!
I have exactly eleven minutes left until Kent and the kids wake up.
Gwendolyn says to find a quiet, peaceful place where you can sit uninterrupted. I choose the kitchen table, which is still clean from the wipe-down I gave it last night. Thanks for that, Past Kiki, I think. You’re welcome, I reply. My attitude of gratitude is already working!
Thoughts become things. Thoughts become things. Today, I will talk to Gwendolyn. I will meet a new mom friend. I’ll have a special coffee date. I will not be weird and awkward, and nobody will regret talking to me.
I breathe in. I breathe out.
“KIKI? KIKI!” KENT IS SHAKING MY SHOULDERS. WHERE AM I?
What happened?
“KIKI. It’s seven thirty! Why are you asleep?” Kent’s face is crisscrossed by the crease lines from the pillowcase. He has the adorable habit of sleeping facedown, like a hibernating frog. Behind him, the kids are standing, confused, hungry, still in their pajamas.
Did he say seven thirty?! No. No. No. NO. NO.
Seven thirty is not good. Seven thirty is when the kids and I should be dressed and getting in formation to load into the van. “I was meditating,” I blurt out, but Kent is already halfway out the kitchen, probably on his way to take the shower he should have taken five minutes ago.
“Kiki,” he says, sighing tenderly, “this is why I got you a planner, honey bunny.”
I flip my planner back open to today.
Today will be a good day, I tell myself. Thoughts become things.
BERNARD REFUSED TO WEAR THE OUTFIT I PICKED OUT FOR him today. I bought it through one of Gwendolyn’s affiliate links. It was a cute little pair of shorts that had an attached set of suspenders, with coordinating knee socks and saddle shoes. It’s exactly what Blair and Gandhi are wearing. They could have matched! Then I could have talked to Gwendolyn about clothes and shopping! Wait, did I buy Bernard a girls’ outfit? No. It’s unisex. Gwendolyn doesn’t believe in gender, gender is over! It doesn’t matter, because Bernard refused to wear it anyway. Instead, he’s wearing a University of North Dakota T-shirt that he took from his little sister’s drawer, and one of Kent’s neckties, which he insisted on tying himself. It looks like a DIY bolo tie or something a drunk party clown would wear.
BEFORE BERNARD WAS BORN, I HAD THOUGHT OF MOTHERHOOD as a club I’d join the moment I gave birth. My baby would be the equivalent of receiving a Mom card: I could present Bernard to any other mother to instantly form the bonds of friendship. Instead, I found out that there were lots of different kinds of moms, and you could only befriend the moms who completely subscribed to the exact same list of beliefs and practices that you did. This was determined swiftly, and often without a conversation. Once, when Bernard was very little and I was pregnant with Clara and he was absolutely losing his mind in the grocery store checkout line, I handed him my phone just to get him to stop fussing. It wasn’t even unlocked, I knew screen time was bad, it was just the phone itself he wanted. Just holding it got him to stop screaming. In that silence, I heard a gasp behind me, and a mom reached across my cart to snatch the phone from Bernard’s chubby little hands. He screamed, and I stood there, dumbfounded, while this stranger explained to me that my phone was absolutely crawling in germs, that it was dirtier than a toilet seat! I have never gone back to that grocery store. Motherhood for me has been a series of interactions like this: of mothers sizing me up and then gently or not-so-gently closing their circle.
I tried the Crunchy Moms, whose kids have never eaten sugar and who only play with nontoxic, recycled, handmade toys cobbled by local artisans. They’re the moms who told me that LEGOs are an assault on our ecosystem and that soy is going to give Bernard cancer.
Then I tried the Attachment Moms, whose kids can breastfeed until they decide not to. They all seem to like harem pants? Kent said harem pants made it look like I was wearing a full diaper. The Attachment Moms were nice, but when they found out that Bernard slept in a crib they started sending me links about co-sleeping, and then stopped posting their meetups in the Facebook group.
There are Tiger Moms, but they scare me. I wasn’t intense enough to keep up, and Bernard refused to participate in any extracurriculars, even as an infant.
I tried the Fit Moms, but I couldn’t keep up with them either. The Strollercize classes were hard enough, but I can’t train for a 5K while pushing four kids in a stroller. Their motto was “STRONG AS A MOTHER,” but my mother smoked throughout my pregnancy so that I’d be a smaller baby, and I don’t think my lung capacity is as good as it would have been if she’d at least cut back to two or three cigs a day.
There are Cool Moms, of course, but they terrify me. How are you supposed to keep up with all the new memes and novelty tees with punny phrases on motherhood and wine? How do you make your hair messy on purpose?
I still don’t know what kind of a mom I am, but I am determined that this year will be different. A new start for me. I won’t just be a stay-at-home mom with four kids. I’ll be a stay-at-home mom with a kid who is in school. I’ll be a part of the Mom Squad. I’m going to be friends with Gwendolyn.
GWENDOLYN JAMES IS EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL IN REAL LIFE. I know she gets highlights (she did an Instagram live from the salon just to #keepitreal with her followers), but they look like they were painted on by God himself.
Today she’s wearing an outfit I haven’t seen her wear yet: they aren’t sweatpants, but they’re sort of sweatpants? But not like my University of North Dakota sweatpants that Kent gave me when I was pregnant with Bernard. These are . . . sexy sweatpants? And they show off her smooth, tan calves. Does she shave every day? No way. She doesn’t shave at all. I bet she doesn’t even have leg hair.