Chapter Two
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The moms on the Juju Bean app talked a lot about “mom brain.” This ranged from harmless forgetfulness to full-blown delirium.
One mom could not, for the life of her, think of the name of that guy who starred in Top Gun; another reported her car stolen at the Westfield mall in Paramus when she’d just forgotten where she parked it.
We were all losing our minds. Paranoia, delusion, mood swings.
Half of us had gotten MRIs, convinced we had a brain tumor.
The neurologist always said the same thing—“You’re just a new mother. ”
One mom physically assaulted a Target employee who told her they were sold out of Happy Baby teething wafers.
Another admitted that she had full conversations with the gadgets in her son Aiden’s nursery.
She told the Halo SleepSure Monitor and the Hatch Rest sound machine things she’d never told anyone.
Then there was @BoyMomBrynn, who misplaced her cell in the microwave.
She didn’t find it until she tried to heat up Gerber baby cereal and it exploded.
Luckily, she’d been in the bedroom. The baby was fine.
She posted a photo of the open-concept kitchen in her Cobble Hill co-op apartment.
It looked like Fallujah. @EatinVeganMama warned us all never to heat a baby’s food in the microwave. “The radiation causes autism!”
Growing up, I’d never imagined myself as a mom, and my mother always assumed that if it happened, it would be an accident and we’d have to drive to Mexico.
Maybe if we’d been on speaking terms, I could’ve asked her about the night terrors, the blood clots, the engorged nipples.
She could’ve assured me that she never breastfed and I turned out fine…
well, basically fine. Instead, I became close to @MamaBearlyHangingOn, who thought my real name was @EstherGreenwood.
She confessed that after every two a.m. feeding, she’d roam her suburban streets.
She’d leave some breast milk out in a cat bowl on the front step of an abandoned home, a ritual to appease the devil.
To be clear, she knew this was deranged.
She wasn’t even Catholic. But at twenty-seven weeks, after she’d recently watched Rosemary’s Baby, she started to bleed heavily.
The ob-gyn told her it was a miscarriage and to get to the ER immediately for a D&C to flush out her uterus.
She prayed. Begged that her baby would live.
The scan showed a heartbeat, but the doctor warned of “intrapartum death.” @MamaBearlyHangingOn started going to church.
She cut a deal. An offering to Satan for a healthy baby.
A whole society of hormonal weirdos, sharing stories about leaky nipples and pelvic-floor therapy.
(“It’s finger rape!!!” @Mothera417 wrote, with a Handmaid’s Tale GIF.
“Stop screaming,” @ZenMamaLlama replied.) If I couldn’t admit to this group that all I thought about—aside from keeping my tiny, perfect human alive—was finding the exotic dancer who I roomed with my freshman year in college, then who could I tell?
I didn’t even know if Daisy was still a sex worker.
Her grandmother had dementia. Her mother didn’t return my calls.
Maybe she’d gotten clean, turned her life around.
Maybe her mom’s latest husband had paid to send her to a spa-like rehab facility.
Maybe she met an Exxon executive named Brad and lives in a leafy suburb with a three-car garage.
Maybe they buy art on cruise ships. Maybe she has a couple of kids whom she drives to soccer because football causes concussions.
Maybe she does Pilates and is on the Juju Bean app: @DallasMomDaisy.
My finger toggled over the message button.
I posted the photo of Daisy in butterfly wings.
“I’m looking for someone very close to my heart. Does anyone recognize this girl, Daisy Laramie, last seen in Central Texas, but possibly living in California?”
Then I hit send.