Upon realizing it’s all gone to hell around here.

“I’m hitting rock bottom I think.” 

I wrote to my best friend tonight. Our friendship is in a place where I can randomly send such a one-liner and she will know everything I mean. 

I don’t need to say that today I got on the scale hoping to see improvement but instead saw a number I haven’t seen since I had an almost full-term baby growing inside me. I don’t need to say that my oldest child is struggling in school and feels like she’s dumb and brainless and her teacher doesn’t seem to care. I don’t need to say that my youngest baby is almost seven years old and doesn’t seem to need snuggling as much as he used to, and that I am simultaneously crushed and yet proud of his new independence. I don’t need to say how much I hate my haggard, saggy, dull, flabby reflection and how I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror. She is proof of how far I’ve fallen and how much I have ignored. I don’t need to say I am starting to avoid leaving the house because I am so embarrassed about who I have become. I don’t need to tell her that my house is such a wreck that it looks as if someone turned it upside down and shook it. That between the overdue library books, the laundry, the endless dishes, the constant vacuuming of tufts of cat hair and dust, and the cheese sticks I made an extra effort to go out and buy today that are “too hard” and “just not the same as the other ones” and therefore inedible, that I am slowly losing my mind. She already knows there is no new status on my latest job application, that my marriage is in pieces, and that the income from such a job is necessary for my independence. I don’t need to tell her that my husband is still sleeping in my guest bed even though we separated almost four years ago, and that I can’t seem to get away and be happy, even for an hour. She knows I worry. She knows I am lost. She knows I am lonely. I don’t need to say that one small jam jar of pinot noir sometimes turns into three, or that I took the first few quick sips at 4:30pm because I needed it and couldn’t wait. 

She sent me a heart, which burst into lots of little hearts and made bubble sounds come out of my phone. Tomorrow I will make changes, but for now knowing someone is listening is enough.  

Those other moms.

Those other moms. They are so impeccable. They park their shining Land Rovers outside the school and their stylish children tumble out laughing. They have trendy, cool haircuts and time to maintain them at the salon every four weeks. They wear good shoes and expensive coats. They wear blazers and interesting glasses. They walk on high heels through the playground holding fancy coffee and confidence.

They wear absolutely no makeup because it’s toxic and they can’t allow it in their house. Also, because they happen to have flawless skin. They have naturally shining, voluminous hair that looks fantastic in a pony tail. They volunteer every week and work on their knitting while they wait. They will eagerly share their Pinterest pages with you, and aren’t fazed a bit by the antics of the new puppy. He’s just perfect for their family! They are always early for school drop off and pickup, and their children will sit quietly with a book while they talk with a friend or with an iPad while they get a massage.

Of course they haven’t forgotten anything. They meal plan. They have a household binder. They wake up an hour before the children, to do yoga and have “me time”. They work out and drink smoothies for breakfast. A nice salad for dinner of kale and pomegranate jewels, with homemade vinaigrette, which they’ve taught their children to prepare. They have time to shop for fresh produce. They never crave a staggering amount of pasta and one hour away from their children.

They own real bras and remember to put one on in public. They often resemble a Patagonia ad and look fresh faced in the wind. They have so much to say about what they heard on NPR this morning or their political activism or the amazing concert or book reading or lecture they recently attended. These sentences come out of their mouths, articulate and complete. They have PhDs and law degrees and somehow own their own business on the side, while they cheerily take their children to cello lessons and skiing lessons and trapeze club. They, as well as their children, are always in bed early.

They have a back up sitter in case the nanny or the main sitter cancels. They would never miss a date night. Their husbands are fantastic, athletic, help with the laundry, and drink only the good whiskey. They get away on trips to the wine country with their best girlfriends and take pictures of the dozen of them getting a pedicure together. They are composed, dignified, and sure of themselves. They never say too much. They happily stay in their circle, and rarely make eye contact. Those other moms. They never talk to me.