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This Little Mommy Stayed Home

This Little Mommy Stayed Home

4.0 4
by Samantha Wilde

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The Mother of all Motherhood novels.

In this riotously funny, ruefully honest, and irresistibly warmhearted debut, Samantha Wilde writes about one new mother who discovers the wonders and terrors of motherhood—one hilarious crisis at a time. For new moms, potential moms-to-be, and anyone who just wants to (wisely) live the experience


The Mother of all Motherhood novels.

In this riotously funny, ruefully honest, and irresistibly warmhearted debut, Samantha Wilde writes about one new mother who discovers the wonders and terrors of motherhood—one hilarious crisis at a time. For new moms, potential moms-to-be, and anyone who just wants to (wisely) live the experience vicariously…

New mom Joy McGuire hasn’t changed her sweatpants since her baby was born. Of course she’s crazy about her newborn son; it’s her distracted, work-obsessed husband and his impossible mother she can’t stand. Joy turns to her own mom for support, but she’s too busy planning her fourth wedding to a suspicious self-help guru. Sure, Joy’s a woman on the brink, but it’s nothing a little sleep, sanity, and chocolate can’t fix.

Until her old college boyfriend shows up at their ten-year reunion. The one she was still in love with when she married her husband. It must be the lack of sleep, because Joy is starting to think she might have ended up with the wrong man. Not to mention she’s obsessed with her sexy yoga instructor, who might just be interested in her. Joy used to be single, skinny, and able to speak in complete sentences, but who is she now? As she’s trying to figure that out, her husband goes missing….

Frank, bawdy, and full of keenly self-aware observations, this novel tells the story of one new mother, three men, one marriage, and the baby love that keeps us up at night

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Here's a talent test: when a narrator's doldrums make a reader laugh out loud. Samantha Wilde's inkwell must be filled with truth serum because this brave and funny book gets the postpartum peaks and valleys so very, winningly, right."—Elinor Lipman, author of The Pursuit of Alice Thrift

"[This] is the funniest novel I've read in a long, long time. What a treat! Mothers everywhere deserve this book." —Ellen Meister, author of The Smart One

"Samantha Wilde is the irreverent, knowing, laugh-out-loud, brutally honest but most treasured best friend that every new mommy craves and every reader relishes. They should issue this smart, hilarious novel along with newborn onesies and nursing pads."—Pamela Redmond Satran, author of Babes in Captivity

“Riotously hilarious, unabashedly honest and positively impossible to put down. Samantha Wilde’s debut is a must read for all moms and non-moms alike.” —Jessica Brody, author of The Fidelity Files

Publishers Weekly
New mother Joy McGuire, the put-upon heroine of this mixed mom-com, considers herself a martyr: all her body parts are either sagging or swelling (conditions she describes in great detail), she has an annoying mother-in-law, her husband spends all his time trying to save the private school where he's headmaster, her mother is marrying a man who can't possibly be as saintly as Joy's long-dead father, she suspects she missed the boat by not marrying her old college boyfriend, and she's lusting after her manipulative yoga instructor. Fortunately for Joy, her comfortable suburban New York friends are willing to discuss her woes at length. For those who enjoy soliloquies about poopy diapers, sore nipples and reproductive anatomy, Joy is an amusing character, though her one-note self-absorption can become grating. Wilde, a yoga instructor and mother of two young children, writes with an authenticity that will both entertain and irritate.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
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Product dimensions:
5.20(w) x 8.28(h) x 0.91(d)

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

I KEEP SLIPPING UP AND SAYING POSTMORTEM WHEN I mean postpartum. I’m two weeks postmortem now, so I guess I shouldn’t expect more of myself. It’s like my hormones are playing Pac- Man with my brain cells—eating them, one by one. But is that really the worst thing in the world? Not by a long shot. The worst thing in the world is the feeling I have every time I sit on the toilet. If I reach down I can feel my perineum dangling just above the water line. (If you don’t know what your perineum is, lucky you. There are some body parts better left to obscurity.) The doctor who stitched me up didn’t mince words: “There,” she said, completing her work. “Now it looks like a vagina again.”

 What a relief, then, that it looks like a vagina and not, say, like an Australian sheepdog or a jar of moldy marmalade. I should be so grateful! I hadn’t realized I could have walked out of the hospital with an etching of one of the presidents between my legs, like at Mount Rushmore. Or maybe it was more like Alice Cooper or another scary rock star way past his prime. What’s black and blue with hair all over? Or maybe it wasn’t black and blue from my son’s overeager exit. Maybe it could have still made it into a book of feminist art, still looking like a pink orchid, just perhaps a new long- petaled variety? I’ll never know what that doctor knew. Shucks. 

At any rate, I’d imagine a vagina is a good thing for a vagina to look like. I haven’t personally looked at it lately. I’m trying to medicate its existence away with the hard-core drugs the hospital gave me (Ibuprofen). I have a friend who did the Our Bodies Ourselves know- yourself- better- labialook- squat over a mirror at one week postmortem, and I don’t think she ever recovered. She said it looked crooked, misplaced, like her vaginal lips had migrated to her inner thigh. It was funnier than the Vagina Monologues, she told me, except she didn’t have the heart to appreciate it, since, after all, it was her vagina giving the monologue like a fat old man with a lisp—not really the character you’d want your vagina to play in the show, if given the chance. 

My husband hasn’t bothered to check out the netherlands either. I would venture to guess he hasn’t bothered to check out anything during his free time besides his Xbox and whatever large- breasted woman he can find on local cable. I don’t mean anything against him. He can’t help it, he’d rather be at work. I just mean to say: I CAN’T STAND HIM. 

Am I screaming? I shouldn’t do that. I’ll wake the baby. Oh, God, I love that baby. I guess I only have so much love in my heart. There’s no more room for anyone else anymore. Which is a surprise, since my breasts and my chest have all expanded so radically I could develop a new career in a carnival sideshow. My husband, the master of making lemonade out of—well, melons—took advantage of the moment of what is called engorgement and took pictures of my breasts. That’s the time when your milk first comes in and each breast weighs more than the baby doubled. Hey! I guess my husband has noticed me since “the great event.” Or parts of me, anyhow. I love having a new baby. No, really, as much as it sounds like I don’t, I do. It beats every other job I’ve had: shelving books in the library (college), catering (postcollege) and, my most recent, real adult- job, freelance editing (something to do with my English degree). Motherhood’s the only job I’ve ever had where staying in your pajamas all day and spending as much time in bed as you possibly can is encouraged. That’s got to be an overlooked benefit to having a newborn. It’s just not pure pleasure all the time. It’s not pure pleasure most of the time. But they tell me it will pass. 

I lie down on the bedroom floor some days and weep while my husband locks himself in the bathroom with his Nintendo DS and takes an hourlong dump. I cry because I want that. I want to be able to do that. I want to be able to poop, and I want an hour to myself. But in addition to constipation, tearing and POP (pain on pooping), I am on call. I am the new 7- Eleven. I am open for business all hours of the day and night. When no one else is around, which is most of the time, I circle the house topless because there seems no reason to wear a bra or a shirt. My breasts have become a public commodity, at least locally. The baby nurses about every tenth breath he takes. I am the milk factory that never closes its doors. I am every man’s wet dream. A busty babe on constant display. 

Actually, I think that’s too generous. I am most definitely nobody’s wet dream. I’ve taken to calling my belly Lumpkin, to be affectionate. My abdominal exercises consist of lying on the floor and breathing. My aerobic activity is a walk to the mailbox. When I walk down the driveway to pick up the mail I feel like a prisoner newly released. The sun offends me. Lying in bed, trying to nap, I hear the neighbors’ daughters playing in the yard. I don’t sleep; I lie still and think of how much I hate them. I think of how they have everything, even flat bellies. Even vaginas that look so much like vaginas no one would need to point it out. My only weapon is time and the pathetic hope that they will kneel on a gurney one day dripping feces, blood and meconium, begging for drugs, their slender white bottoms quivering ever so slightly as they bump into the elevator and head to maternity. 

Meet the Author

A graduate of Smith College and Yale Divinity School, Samantha Wilde is a yoga teacher and a minister. The mother of two born within twenty months of eachother, she lives in Belchertown, Massachusetts, where she uses nap times to work on her next novel for Bantam Dell.

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This Little Mommy Stayed Home 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
cookieMOMster713409HF More than 1 year ago
This book is absolutely hilarious!  Something every woman that has ever experienced childbirth can relate to in one way or another.   The descriptions of her postmortem...oops, postpartum....body, were absolutely hysterical! 
sugarloafmama More than 1 year ago
An amusing look at the first year of motherhood though the eyes of an often crazed new mother. Despite the comedy, there are many touching parts that any mother (recent or not) can identify with. We read this for book club and everyone loved it (mothers of infants and mothers of college bound kids). There was a character for everyone, the workaholic husband, the overbearing mother-in-law, the ex-boyfriend, the best friend whose got it all together and the sexy male yoga instructor. Often a laugh out loud book with lots of truth sprinkled throughout!
JenMA More than 1 year ago
Great book for any mom. This book is like having a best friend to validate all of your motherly emotions and insecurities... makes you feel "normal" in a very choatic time of your life. The main character, Joy, voices things that we've all thought about but never had the nerve to say out loud. Laughs from first to last page!!! Highly recommended!