#IMomSoHard Read online

  Dedication

  (Raising a glass)

  This book is dedicated to:

  Finn and Dashiel, the boys who made us moms

  Delilah and Eleanor, our girls,

  who may one day be moms

  Our own moms, Terri and Barbara

  Our dads, Dewey and Jerry

  And our loving husbands, Brit and Colin,

  the official Mom Makers in our lives.

  Most of all, this book is dedicated to all the moms!

  We see you.

  We get you.

  We love you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Authors’ Note

  We Introduce Ourselves So Hard

  I Get Knocked Up So Hard

  I Hometown So Hard

  I Body After Baby So Hard

  I Bust My Ass So Hard

  I Ball and Chain So Hard

  I Lose My Mind So Hard

  I Mom Friend So Hard

  I Keep It Together So Hard

  I Keep Fools Alive So Hard

  I Hit the Town (And Am in Bed by 9:30 P.M.) So Hard

  I Disappear So Hard

  I Love on Some Ladies So Hard

  It Takes a Village So Hard

  I Dress for Success So Hard

  I Do Sexy Stuff So Hard

  I Work Out My Issues So Hard

  I Get Dark So Hard

  I Live and Let Live So Hard

  A Final Word

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Authors’ Note

  HEY, FRIEND!

  We’re Kristin and Jen. We are currently typing this on a laptop in a car in a parking garage. There is a bag of ravaged Chipotle next to us. We are text fighting with our husbands. We will be late to pick up the kids. To make matters worse, this laptop was dropped on the way to get the kids in the car this morning, so the space bar is hanging on by a thread. Like us.

  Tonight, we will do our best to feed the kids, get them ready for tomorrow, give them love, praise, and encouragement, and wrestle them to bed. We will then put on our comfy pants, which are only getting tighter, clean up the house, and spend five to ten minutes prepping for tomorrow. We will pour a glass of wine, the signal that we are “off duty.” Only we are not, of course—a mom is never off the clock. She’s simply on call, as at any moment someone could barf, have a nightmare, want to know why people die, or simply think their pajamas feel too “bally” all of a sudden.

  Why are we saying “we”? Don’t we have our own brain? Sometimes we do. And sometimes we don’t feel like we have one at all. But we’re best friends, so we share a brain, or at least similar thoughts, all the time. Since becoming mothers, the thought we share all the time is Boy, I really suck at this.

  We know we’re lucky. For so many reasons. The number one reason is that we have wonderful children, husbands, and families, and we’re all okay. But we’re also lucky because we have each other to lean on when our children, husbands, and families drive us absolutely bonkers.

  We started the web series #IMOMSOHARD because we made each other laugh, and we made each other feel better when we felt like we were really failing at motherhood. We figured that if another mom saw the terrible job that we were doing, she might feel better about the job that she’s doing. When you’re up all night breastfeeding or taking care of a sick kid, you can find a lot of stuff online that tells you how to improve upon the job you’re doing, or how tragedy can strike you or your innocent child at any moment. Real depressing stuff. No thanks.

  The truth is, you don’t need advice; you need understanding. Because there’s nothing like feeling alone and then hearing that someone else is going through the same mess you are. We’ve done it for each other, and we want to do the same for you. So here’s the stuff we like to talk about when we get together. It makes us laugh. It makes us feel better. Hopefully it will do the same for you. Because you’re not alone. While you read, you’re off duty for a few minutes. Pour yourself a glass of wine and have a little “me” time with we. (Unless you’re reading this in the bathroom, as moms often must. Then have a little wee-wee time with us.)

  LOVE, KRISTIN & JEN

  We Introduce Ourselves So Hard

  Before we get started, let us tell you how we got the idea to #I MOM SO HARD.

  We both lived in Nebraska through college, but we never found each other even though it’s not heavily populated and you can see for a hundred miles in every direction. We had all the same friends. We were studying the same subjects, and we went to all the same bars. Kristin’s roommate was even in an improv group with Jen, and yet we never met. It was like Sliding Doors, but with more Cornhuskers gear. A bunch of near misses.

  After college, we both moved hundreds of miles away from Nebraska and somehow ended up only a block apart from each other in California. Not that we knew it, though. We were doing all the same things, had all the same friends, and we still never met. We weren’t total twinsies—Jen was into weird witchy shit (she’s not a Wiccan or anything, but she believes in crystals and stuff) and felt naked without jewelry, and Kristin was more of a tomboy—but it is insane that the stars didn’t align and arrange a meet-cute for us.

  And then one day, the universe caught us. We found ourselves outside a small, weird theater that used to be a hair salon, drinking brews in the parking lot, which was a welcome throwback to our Nebraska days, minus the banging sounds of Warrant. Even that night, it took us a while to meet. We kept circling and narrowly missing each other, until, finally, we were back-to-back loud-talking to different people about Nebraska. We both turned to each other in unison and said, “Wait. You’re from Nebraska?”

  Now imagine a Rolodex flipping really, really fast as we shouted out the names of every single person that we knew in common. It was like we were mad at each other:

  Jen:

  KRISTY SCHWEDE?!

  Kristin:

  I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH HER! HOW DO YOU KNOW HER?!

  Jen:

  WE BOTH WORKED AT TGI FRIDAYS!

  Kristin:

  CARRIE SMILEWOOD?

  Jen:

  YES!

  Kristin:

  NO!

  Jen:

  SHE’S BEEN MY BEST FRIEND SINCE WE WERE LIKE 15!

  Kristin:

  MICHELLE ASHLEY?

  Jen:

  I DID IMPROV WITH HER!

  Kristin:

  SHE’S MY ROOMMATE!

  Jen:

  NUH-UH!

  Kristin:

  YES-HUH!

  Jen:

  I WAS AT HER GRADUATION PARTY!

  Kristin:

  I THREW THAT PARTY!

  We exchanged phone numbers and started hanging out a day or two later. We just began in the middle. It was like we didn’t have time to pussyfoot around, so we acted like we’d known each other all along. We got each other right from the beginning. You know when you’re a little kid and you would stare awkwardly at the kid in front of you and ask, “Do you want to be my friend?” And that kid would say, “Yes,” and then you were bound for life? That was us. One of us would call the other and be like, “Hey, I’ve got Ritz and spray cheese and half a bottle of wine left. You want to come over?” And the other one would say, “Give me five minutes.” It felt like being home.

  We hung out constantly. We flipped each other’s shit, and we laughed. A lot. When you have a friend who can make fun of you for your excessive gray hair—or your lip hair—it’s the most wonderful medicine. It takes all the air out of how serious any situation is, and that’s what we try to do for each other. We also respected each other, and we celebrated each other’s wins. Not e
verything was a friggin’ Hallmark movie or one big Sarah McLachlan song, but for the most part, we had a sense of humor, and we were tougher together.

  We met during that “I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life, but I know that I’m doing it wrong” phase of adulthood. If you’re single, you start to feel like you should be married. And if you’re married, you ask yourself, Why did I do this to myself? Because we were both single, we spent most of our time on our careers: Kristin as a teacher and a commercial actor (when the work came), and Jen as a salesperson for skincare products and a writer (when the work came).

  We were able to be very patient and understanding with one another because we were both fighting the same good fight: survival. Keeping your car running. Paying your bills. Going to the dentist. Looking happy. You know, the same stuff you try to do now, only while you’re also keeping unappreciative children alive.

  When we didn’t talk for a few weeks, we still picked up from where we had left off. You know those kinds of friends? The ones where you don’t have to say, “I’ve been busy,” “I’ve been sad,” “I’ve been lazy,” etc.? You can just say “cheers” and open the floodgates? Everyone needs one of those, and that’s who we’ve been for each other.

  Eventually, we both got married. Then we went through pregnancy together, and that sealed the Friends-for-Life deal for us. It’s amazing that a friendship can get even deeper after you have kids, but the right mom friend is a lifesaver. Because, let’s face it, when you’re a new mom, you feel incredibly isolated. You feel so far away from family, from work, from friends. But one of us would call, and before the phone was even hung up, there’d be a knock at the door, and someone who got it would be on the other side. Within minutes, we’d both be crying, both feeling like utter failures, wondering, Why doesn’t anybody tell you it’s like this?

  One day, after Jen wiped snot from her chin with the back of her hand, she said, “You know what? We crack each other up. I bet other moms could use a laugh, too.”

  Between us, we had four small children, zero time and even less energy, and no real plan, so we thought, Yes. We wanted to make something for you to watch when you’re up in the middle of the night worrying about SIDS or whether you’d seen the To Catch a Predator van on your street—something that would cheer you up instead of making you think about how everyone you love will eventually die.

  And of course, we did it wrong. We decided we were going to be like talk-show hosts, thinking that if we were super happy and peppy, we’d make other moms happy and peppy. People love Rachael Ray, right? The problem was, peppy was the furthest thing from how we felt.

  When we were ready for our first shoot, Kristin had a raging period and cystic acne so big and so covered in blush that it looked like she’d put a clown nose on the wrong part of her face. Jen was sweaty and had on a cardigan that was too tight and too hot. She’d been breastfeeding and was so engorged that her sweater was coming apart—and not in a good way. Her eyes were little slits. You could barely even see them. It was like she’d just lost a fight.

  We started filming, and Kristin chirped in her best Kelly Ripa, “Hello!” and introduced herself and her kids. When it was Jen’s turn, she introduced herself and said her son’s name, and then she froze.

  “My daughter’s name is . . . [crickets].”

  SHE HAD FORGOTTEN HER DAUGHTER’S NAME.

  It’s Delilah. Her daughter’s name is Delilah.

  In all fairness, Delilah was still attached to Jen all the time, so it wasn’t like Jen had started using her name regularly. Delilah wasn’t bringing anyone the remote or anything. And, like a really good friend, instead of helping Jen out, Kristin snort-laughed. “You just forgot your kid’s name!” She would not let it go.

  We didn’t even have a full video. But we knew there was something really awesome in Jen forgetting Delilah’s name, so we said, “Why the hell not?” and posted it. We got five thousand views in two days, and we said, “Holy moly, there are women commenting on here who we don’t even know!” And then we agreed, “That’s the sign.”

  So we did a Mother’s Day video. We did one on hemorrhoids, one on the joy of Spanx, one on sex after kids. And no matter what, no matter how peculiar or sad or weird we got, women said, “OMG, me too! I thought I was the only one.”

  We did a postpartum episode, and we talked about some pretty dark stuff, mostly about anxiety and how Kristin was afraid every time she walked through a doorway that she would hit her son’s head on the door and his head would explode, which we’re pretty sure would defy the laws of physics or at least carpentry. Doorways terrified her—and do you know how many doorways there are in the world? Every room has at least one! After we posted that video, so many moms were like, “I have that fear too!” Other moms chimed in to say that they were afraid that they were going to fall off a cliff while holding their baby. Or dangle him over a balcony, MJ-style.

  We realized that no one was showing the kinds of conversations moms have together in an open, honest way. That’s what we do. It’s just real real. Real relationships, real women, real love. We make fun of ourselves, not other people. We’re not judging anyone. It’s not about our kids. We don’t want to talk about must-have products or a funny way to put on a Baby-Björn. When we get comments, 90 percent of the time it’s “What lipstick are you wearing?” and then it’s women tagging a friend because it’s the same conversation they’d just been having. No matter how out-there or specific your particular screwup or neurosis is, you’re not the only one. It’s like porn. There is always someone out there who has the same quirk you do.

  The truth is, being a mom is f*cking tough, but it is so much easier when there’s someone who understands and has your back. We’ve got to be there for one another. We’ve got to love one another, support one another. Because—let’s be honest—no matter what we do, the kids are going to blame us for all the stuff that goes wrong in their lives anyway. Nobody’s ever in therapy in thirty years going, “Hey, by the way, my mother has nothing to do with why I’m here. She’s blameless. Nothing but inspirational.”

  There’s simply no such thing as a perfect mom. You know that mom who seems to have it all together all the time? Who’s real happy, who doesn’t have someone else’s boogers on her face, and who likes to bake things to bring to school when it’s not even her day? Let us tell you something: she’s bawling in her shower just like the rest of us.

  Nobody’s got it figured out. You’re not the only mom whose kid ate detergent for breakfast. We all just want to do the best job we can do. And if it’s not the best job, we’re going to be fine with that. We all need to be okay with being just okay some days. You’re not alone in this, you guys. You’re doing great. Or you’re doing good enough—and that’s great!

  Welcome to the party.

  I Get Knocked Up So Hard

  Let’s start at the beginning. Pregnancy feels like you’re a victim of a zombie attack. They ate your brains first, and you’re the only one afflicted. You’re not in control of your body, you lose your ability to think and remember things, and, oh yeah, you’re blissfully unaware of what’s about to happen to you. You’re not fully gone yet—you still remember stuff, you still love your spouse—but all kinds of shocking and gross things start happening. The moment the pregnancy test screams Pregnant! a micro-size brass band starts marching in your uterus. Cue excitement, cue barfing, cue fatigue, and cue terror.

  The most bizarre part of pregnancy is the first trimester when you don’t look any different, and, if you’re one of the lucky ones, you don’t feel any different. You have to remind yourself that you can’t eat sushi or join in at happy hour. It’s like a fun little secret that nobody gets to know unless you want them to. You just get to field all the “Are you gaining weight due to gluttony or sloth?” questions.

  Pretty soon, the second trimester rolls in, and the fun part starts: sharing the news, showing off a tiny bump, picking out cute stuff for the nursery. You are mobile, you are happy, you
are glowing—and then slowly, steadily, the snow globe–size being in your gut grows to the size of an actual globe.

  Finally, you hit the third trimester, and the magic starts to feel less like magic and more like pain. You can see the baby’s foot kicking through your stomach and feel a jab to your rib. The call is coming from inside the house. (And the house is your uterus.) Balance is an issue, you haven’t seen your labia in weeks (which is shocking because they have enlarged to cocktail wienies), your feet are fat, your thighs hurt, you can’t poop, you can’t stop peeing, and your boobs are veiny and leaking. It’s so uncomfortable that by the time you do deliver it feels like a gift that someone is asking you to shove that globe through your tiny vagina hole. Ah, birth. What a miracle. You are now a mom-bie. Welcome! You are now one of the walking dead.

  KRISTIN

  I was a ginormous giant during my first pregnancy. Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smelled the smell of a Cinnabon. And I ate many. Jen threw a baby shower for me, and we played this game where you run a ribbon around your midsection to see how big your circumference is, and everyone guesses the number. You guys, every single person guessed about ten inches less than my actual number. It was quite a confidence booster. (Years earlier, my husband had made the same mistake when guessing my sexual history, and I’m actually fine with him being that far off the mark.)

  My belly was so doughy. Finn had a real luxury condo thing going on in there. When I went in for measurement, my doctors kept using the term “macro-birth.” When the doctor first said it, I looked at her like she was asking me to solve a long division problem in my head. I knew that “macro” and “birth” together did not sound awesome. “Macro” means big, and “birth” means something tearing through my vagina, so something big tearing through my vagina sounded, um, carry the one, TERRIFYING.

  The docs had a hard time estimating just how big Finn was going to be when he came out, but my husband weighed eleven pounds, and his brothers each weighed twelve at birth. Their mom is six feet tall, so when they asked me at my OB if I wanted to try vaginal birth, I said, “I’m five feet eight. I’ll try real hard, but that’s going to be a big baby.” I should’ve done that research before choosing a spouse.