Porn for Moms

You walk in the door after a long day in the office. Your feet hurt. Your knees hurt. Somehow, your pants grew teeth at the waist and are biting into you. Exhausted, you drop your purse on the kitchen table and stand still for a moment, just listening. What is that sound?

Oh my God. Is that—

Silence?

Yeahhhhhhhh, baby, you’re all alone in the house on a weeknight.

You check all the rooms, one at a time, just to make sure you’re not imagining things. And not only are they empty—

They’re also already clean.

The bed’s made. Floor’s swept. The smell of lemon Pledge hangs in the air.

Oooooooh, yes. There is nothing left for you to do except relax.

But surely there’s some laundry that needs folded in the basement? Or a litter box to scoop? This all just seems a little too good to be true. Are the kids down there, hiding in silence and waiting to leap out from behind the easel and scare you just enough to release that tiny bit of pee you always seem to have hanging out in your bladder?

What the what? Someone came down here and redid the basement playroom and now it looks like a Pinterest wet dream and everything is neatly stored in a wicker basket lined with jaunty fabric and there’s no permanent marker on anything and it doesn’t smell like cat poop anymore, just fresh air and grapefruits?

Unnnnnnnngh.

Back upstairs, you find a thin-crust pepperoni pizza at the perfect temperature for eating, a rare break from the molten lava face-jam that is eating pizza with your kids. You think about changing into your pajamas, but before you even have a chance, you look down and realize that somehow, you’re already wearing your comfiest yoga pants and softest lounge-around shirt. Your bra is gone, but your boobs somehow levitate anyway. What is this witchcraft?

You transfer the pizza to an actual plate, not something with poorly sized dividers, and carry it down to the living room, where the TV is already set to Netflix and there’s not one educational Canadian cartoon in your recommendations, only thought-provoking documentaries about social injustice, and also new episodes of My 600-Pound Life.

You settle in under your favorite down throw on the couch and prepare for the night of your life. The first episode of Making a Murderer begins to play. And then you fall asleep. And your pizza falls on the floor. Face down.

And you’re going to have to clean that up in the morning.

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