Yesterday Otis and I got up early and went for a walk and travelled to the market. My husband came home to a wife wearing an actual outfit with sexy underwear, makeup and straightened hair. My eyebrows were plucked, teeth flossed and nails were polished.

There was dinner in the oven, a sliced up baguette on the table and salad waiting in the fridge. A bottle of wine was corked and aerating on the counter with two glasses ready to greet him.

The baby was napping, fully dressed and content.

Our house was spotless and the laundry had been folded and put away. The dishwasher was empty and trash had already been taken out. Our house was full of pleasant music, delicious smells, loving warmth and yuppy levels of domestic success. Over dinner we discussed my husband asking for a raise as work, musing that I could spend more time at home with baby.

Yesterday, I killed it. I was a mothermarthstewartfucking goddess.

Today baby spent a great deal of time in the exersaucer. I spent my day in jogging pants, oversized panties and a shirt that had been Jackson Pollacked by drool, puke and pureed pumpkin. I did not wear a bra and I slathered diaper rash cream under my pendulant breasts as they chaffed my skin.

My husband came home to a pending uber eats order and a half full 2L bottle of cola that was going flat on the counter. The dishwasher needed to be emptied and there was a ring of dirty diapers creating a 3 foot perimeter around the couch. Baby was napping and I was watching Keeping up with the Kardashians (clearly failing to keep up).

At dinner we discussed how hard it is staying at home with a baby all day and that I was thinking about going back to school in the winter and maybe starting my own business. I am still an independent woman and I can and should rise above the confines of domestic servitude.

This weekend I will go out with my girlfriends. I will wear something tight and low cut. I will strive to look younger than I am. I will discuss over dinner Donald Trump and the politics of a different country. We will clink glasses over agreed contempt for Weinstein, Cosby and Kevin Spacey. We will discuss how our young sons will understand consent and respect for all humans that walk this planet. We will agree that it’s important to raise feminist children, humanitarians and budding activists.

We will all agree that the diva cup has revolutionized our periods, our wallets and the environment. We will trade low calorie recipes and work out tips while we sip cocktails and eat appetizers loaded with cheese and cream. We will dance to songs that feel so good in our bodies but contain lyrics that objectify women and make racial references that we can’t even sing along to. After we will politely say no to a man asking for change as we hop into our cabs. I will wake my husband up to drunkenly initiate sex that won’t actually happen because I will realize part way in that I’m actually too tired.

Since being a mom, since being on maternity leave, my life has become a never-ending cycle of hypocritical doubt. Am I June Cleaver? Am I Anna Wintour? My priorities and goals seem to change everyday. Crashing waves, ebs and flows, manic moments; identity crisis overload.

Will it ever end? Is being a mom just a constant midlife crisis, forever and ever? Or will all of these stark contradictions one day come together to create a shiny new person – a lady who almost never sips lukewarm coffee in yesterday’s pyjamas and wonders: seriously – who the fuck am I anymore?


Erica Moore is an Interior Designer with a degree in Fine Arts and Literature. She is a wife, and mother to 2 dogs and 1 baby. She is also a very hilarious human being. Check out her blog and keep up with her on Instagram.


Featured Image via @vintageart_originals

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