Chapter 18 Angeni Luna
Angeni Luna
Now, more than ever, be grateful for your commitment to keeping your babies close.
Angeni could not stop thinking of those six children, could not stop scrolling the news for information about them. The media began releasing their names and school photos—the boys in their collared shirts, the girls in ruffly dresses. Madison, Carter, Jocelyn, Emma, Jacob, Miguel.
Her Instagram post was a response to this tragedy. In the caption, she wrote:
My heart aches. Events like this one remind me why it’s so important for us to revisit our social norms. I feel awful for the mothers who have no choice but to send their children to schools that have become battlegrounds.
We must all have the right to be with our children, teaching them within the safe walls of our homes
Most of the commenters applauded her words:
Homeschool FTW. I cannot imagine sending my children out into this world we live in. I don’t judge parents who do, I just don’t understand how they can. How are these parents of these poor six children going to live with themselves now?
These shootings need to stop. Until they do, I’m homeschooling. It’s not always easy, but at least I know my kids are safe.
I’m so lucky to be able to stay home with my kids. Feel so sad for moms who have to go to work and send their kids to school. I can’t imagine the daily worry
But there were a few of the usual haters:
R u fucking serious right now? It’s not the schools that are the problem, it’s the guns. Wow. Unfollow.
Ummm, hi, some women want to work. And some kids want to go to a regular school and spend time playing with kids instead of just interacting with people at their weird commune
This is a really strange post. Somehow, you’ve found a way to shame working mothers in the midst of a national tragedy. Fascinating.
Shaming mothers? That wasn’t what she was doing.
She was speaking out for the safety of children.
Why weren’t more people up in arms about what was best for the children?
This was what was wrong with society. If more people prioritized children and the nurturing they needed on a daily basis, so many problems would be solved.
There would be no more of these shootings, for one thing.
The account handle for the last comment was @nurture.mother.official, a clear copycat account.
Angeni tapped over to view the page. There were only a few posts so far, and they all looked exactly like the posts on her own page—same background, same text font.
But the content of the page wasn’t copying Angeni; in fact, it seemed to be opposing her.
You are not a bad mother if you want time to yourself. You are a human being and your needs matter, too.
Fed is best. Feed your child in a way that supports your happiness too. Happy mom, happy baby.
Angeni felt attacked. It was just so blatant. Was this even legal?
“Erik!” she called.
Things still felt off with Erik. She’d told him that morning that they should have their long-postponed State of the Union chat after dinner.
She’d said it could be followed by “other things,” and when she’d waggled her eyebrows suggestively, he’d smiled and said, “I’m definitely in. ” She was trying.
Erik appeared in the doorway. “You call me?”
“Yeah. Take a look at this.”
She showed him the @nurture.mother.official account page.
“What is this?” he said, brow furrowed.
“Someone copying my page but with counter messages,” she said.
“What in the world?”
“Can we report them?”
He shrugged. “I’ll try. I guess there’s nothing proprietary about your design, but this is pretty egregious. I can’t remember—did Jer create the background?”
Jer did some small design tasks for the business, mostly related to their website. But he hadn’t made the background.
“No. It’s just something I found online.”
“Hmm, I don’t know if there’s anything we can do, then. We could hire someone to make a custom design for us, change our colors.”
“What? Why should we have to change anything? They’re the problem. People know my brand. I can’t go changing everything anytime someone like this comes along.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“It’s clearly a new page. They only have a couple thousand followers. But we need to nip this in the bud.”
He handed the phone back to her.
“I’m on it,” he said. “Sorry, babe. Haters coming out of the woodwork.”
He was right. She’d heard it all at this point—Angeni Luna is tone deaf, Angeni Luna is the death of feminism, Angeni Luna is a witch.
“We knew there would be some backlash from the book deal,” he reminded her.
There had been backlash. Most people were genuinely supportive, but it was the negative comments that stuck with her:
is the title of the book ‘how to make motherhood much harder than it needs to be’? if not, that’s my suggestion. you’re welcome
if ur writing a book, whenever will u have time to can tomatoes?
You know what bugs me? The type of mothering you’re promoting would require most women to drop out of the workforce completely, meaning they would become financially dependent on their partner, thereby severely limiting what’s possible for their freedom and future.
What you’re not saying in the image you’re selling (yes, selling) is that you, in fact, make significant money from book deals like this.
You are telling women there is only one right way to mother, but you are really having it both ways. Do you see the hypocrisy?
“I suppose this is just testing my resolve,” she said.
“Exactly. Spirit is giving you obstacles to see how willing you are to overcome them.”
He was right. He always reflected back to her the core beliefs she held dear. He reminded her who she was.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I love you,” he said back to her.
He leaned over sleeping Freya and kissed Angeni on the mouth.
“I’m looking forward to later,” he said.
“Me too,” she said, though she wasn’t, not really.
She would give him her body, out of obligation, which was something she’d sworn she’d never do again after too many episodes of meaningless, self-disrespecting sex in her younger years.
Not that this was meaningless. Maybe, in marriage, obligatory sex was especially meaningful.
After some trial and error, Angeni determined that afternoons were her best creative windows.
She wasn’t pleased with her progress on the book.
Mostly, she’d been putting different ideas into a Word document titled “Book Stuff,” but she wasn’t sure how these thoughts would make themselves into a cohesive manuscript.
She was doing her best to trust the process, to let Spirit guide her.
It was still early days, and the mental energy needed for a book was immense.
She couldn’t expect too much of herself.
She had to practice the self-compassion she so often preached.
Freya was thriving. That was what mattered most. If Freya was thriving, Angeni was a success.
She breastfed Freya, then gave her some bites of chicken-liver paté for her lunch.
For at least the first two years of Freya’s life, Angeni wanted breast milk to be Freya’s primary source of sustenance, with food being more for practicing different tastes and textures.
Her plan was to breastfeed through three years, or longer if Freya wanted.
Angeni knew people thought it was strange when children breastfed beyond babyhood.
Once they can ask for the boob with words, they’re too old.
There were comments along those lines in every post in which she mentioned her intention to breastfeed long-term.
This was what was wrong with society—rushing women through these precious moments of motherhood, encouraging them to have their babies sleep independently and find other sources of nutrition beyond the breast as soon as possible.
“Hey,” Sitka said, coming into the kitchen to prepare her own lunch.
Every day, Sitka ate the same thing—two slices of Angeni’s homemade sourdough bread, slathered in peanut butter and raspberry jam from the farmers market.
Angeni had made the mistake once of offering Sitka a glass of raw milk with her meal, explaining how it contained more amino acids and natural probiotics than the altered milk most people drank.
Sitka had looked at Angeni like she was the stupidest person on the planet and said, “I’ll skip the listeria juice, thanks.
” Angeni didn’t bother trying to defend her choices, but she did make a mental note to share more about raw milk on Instagram.
“Do you mind feeding her a few more bites of paté?” Angeni asked Sitka. “I think I’m going to heat up some of that chili I made the other day.”
“Sure,” Sitka said.
Sitka scooted her stool next to Freya’s high chair and lifted the tiny spoon, moving it around Freya’s face and making airplane noises before saying, “Coming in for a landing” and putting the spoon in Freya’s mouth.
Freya thought it was hysterical. Was Angeni playful enough with Freya?
She was so often consumed with tending to Freya’s basic needs.
She needed to focus on infusing more play.
She added this topic to her list of future Instagram posts.
Angeni put the leftover pot of chili on the stove and turned on the burner. She was debating whether or not to ask Sitka about her post this morning. She both craved and feared Sitka’s opinion.
“Horrible about that shooting in Cincinnati, right?” Angeni started.
Sitka was still doing the spoon-airplane thing with Freya, the two of them in their own little world.
“Shooting?” Sitka asked, eyes still on Freya.
So she hadn’t seen the post. If she’d seen it, she would have read the caption and comments and known about the tragedy.
“A school. Six children were killed.”
“Oh, that’s awful.”