I Don't Know How She Does It

Kate Reddy?

I've known her six years.

Smartest girl I know.

And a heart of gold, too.

All us working mothers feel

like we're spinning 50 plates

in they air at once, but Kate,

you can give her ten more plates,

all the size of manhole covers,

and she just keeps going.

Big report due the

next day at work, done.

Sew some extra fairy wings

on for Emily's recital, she's doing it.

Last minute in-laws show up, she can

do it without mixing vodka and Xanax.

It's amazing.

I'm telling you, she's amazing.

For all of us moms, there comes a time

when you almost don't pull it off,

and, um, for Kate, that was

those three months last winter.

And all that trouble started

with the bake sale.

Did she tell you

about the bake sale?

Oh, my God,

the kindergarten bake sale.

I had just flown home to

Boston from a business trip.

But then I got the reminder

from Emily's school about the bake sale.

I promised Emily that I'd

make something homemade

and I was prepared to

stay up all night to do it.

But the deli was

out of baking supplies.

This pie was going to be homemade

if it was the last thing I did.

Why did I care?

Well, first of all,

the other mothers are like a tiny army

of mini Martha Stewarts.

Their contributions would look perfect.

Their daughters would feel proud.

I just wanted Em

to feel the same way.

I'm trying to prevent the newsflash,

20 years from now.

Friends trace the start of Emily Reddy's

mental problems to a school bake sale

where her mother, a shadowy

presence in her life,

humiliated her

in front of her classmates.

I was not

gonna let Emily down.

Spread out,

spread out, spread out...

Bigger, bigger, bigger...

You don't understand.

I still remember the looks I got

in 1974, when my mother

sent me to the school bake sale

with two cans

of sliced peaches.

You made a pie.

- Hi!

- Hi, welcome home.

Thanks. I... I thought maybe

the powdered sugar would help.

No. No,

we're way past help on this.

Come to bed. Listen,

we got Chips Ahoy here.

We can throw these in her backpack.

She'll be good to go.

Are you kidding me?

Do you have any idea what those

dietetically correct mothers

would do if I brought cookies with

high fructose corn syrup and salt?

Oh, my God, that sounds really good.

Can I have like a little?

Mm...

- Mm! Yeah.

- Hm? See?

- You worry too much.

- Well, you know, I just...

I just want Emily to feel proud

of what she brings to the bake sale.

I don't want her to feel different

from the other kids because her mother

has to travel for work, you know?

I just...

- I want her to know I tried.

- All right, I take it back.

Those are nice things

to want for her.

- Hey, how was Phoenix?

- Oh, it was fine.

You know, airport, taxi, meeting,

hotel, meeting, taxi, airport.

You must, be, uh... exhausted.

Oh! Well... a little.

But not completely.

# Does he love me?

I wanna know

I'm not one

of those wives who doesn't

wanna have sex

with her husband.

I still think he's

the cutest guy I know.

His adorable little frown lines,

his seaweed-colored eyes,

the way he smells after a shower.

There's just one problem.

# It's in his kiss ##

A recent study showed that

64 percent of women with young children

don't sleep through the night.

Researchers were at a loss

to explain why.

They could have asked me.

At night, I, like women

all around the world, do the list:

Emily's birthday party theme.

Pirates or pop stars?

Things to buy:
Paper towels,

toothpaste, pork chops.

Buy a present

for Jedda's birthday party.

Find out Jedda:
Boy or girl?

Call the guy about the thing.

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