Forgive Me Martha

By Becky M. Pourchot

After the birth of author Becky M. Pourchot’s twins, life slipped into chaos.

The family was eating take-out four times a week, the house smelled of dirty diapers, and an infestation of moths descended on the kitchen like a team of unfed sumo wrestlers.

She did what she could, but in her mind it was never enough. Rather than crumple under the unreachable demands of her new life Pourchot began a blog, confessing all of her hilarious shortcomings to Martha Stewart the “Great Goddess of Domesticity.”

The result became Forgive Me Martha an outrageously funny collection of short stories and poems full of honesty, humor, and humility, sending hope to those of us who fall short of being perfect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becky M. Pourchot
• Release date: Apr 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301218127

Becky M. Pourchot

This wasn't really the plan...I mean this author thing. I was supposed to be out in the world saving sick birds or helping people laid out on a couch find their inner child. I was supposed to be living in some little unknown town-- like Waunaukee, Wisconsin or Newton, Iowa, watching my imaginary husband play in his imaginary band, with my two kids dressed so sweetly. Yet here I am in Flagler Beach, Florida of all places, with a husband who doesn't play guitar and kids who choose their own clothes. I am not bandaging sparrows wings or mending broken hearts, but writing books that seems to draw out the inner child in me. Not much of this was part of the plan, but what ever is?

Book preview

The Roots of Imperfection

One afternoon in a moment of sleep deprived delirium I decided to create a floral arrangement out of scraps of colored paper. Martha Stewart was on the TV, demonstrating the complicated steps for making an arrangement that would look perfect in my home. Never mind that I had newborn suckling twins attached to my boobs or that that I was healing from a c-section, I was going to make a vase of paper flowers.

On that afternoon, postpartum psychosis had wiggled its way into my mind, and I believed wholeheartedly that my value as a woman depended on making that craft. But why stop there? I thought in a flash of grandiosity. Maybe with a little extra effort I’d decorate the entire dining room—no, the entire house--as divinely elegant as Martha’s television studio.

As my time exiled on the couch beneath an oversized nursing pillow progressed (and my psychoactive medications began to take effect) the reality of my situation sank in. The truth was my sweet and adorable angels were destroying all semblance of order in my home. There was no time to craft, let alone do the dishes. And ultimately my busy life with three kids, a job as a freelance writer, and only a weak desire to clean out my refrigerator left me little hope of ever becoming a domestic diva.

Life during the early months with my twins was far from perfect. My husband, seven-year-old son, and I were eating fast food regularly—sometimes for both lunch and dinner. In our neglected pantry weevils took over, forcing us to eat oatmeal riddled with spidery web-like castings. The smell of dirty diapers and curdled milk permeated the house, and stacks of laundry towered to the ceiling. Meanwhile due to the hours I spent caring for my needy infants, my self care went down the tubes. Large mouse sized knots filled my hair, entwining themselves like cocoons at my neck. Fortunately I rarely left the house.

My one hope at salvation was Martha Stewart, who seemed able to do it all. She was everything I wasn’t--well composed, organized, crafty, and her cakes always came out so much lovelier then mine. I was in awe of her mastery of everything I could never do. When I watched her show, I fantasized that I wasn’t tied down to my little ones, and imagined all of the charming things I would do with my home, all the parties I would host, all the perennials I would plant. But deep down inside I knew I could never be as good as Martha.

As the babies grew, summer came and we were able to step outside into the light of day. I connected with the neighbor ladies from my upscale suburban neighborhood—a neighborhood for which Martha would certainly approve. I joined these stylish ladies and their families for potlucks, attended their kitchen supply home shows, and exchanged recipes for Jell-o dishes.

Although I enjoyed their camaraderie, some days when I was with this attractive group of women I felt like I was under a magnified glass. I felt exposed, as if everyone could see how incompetent I really was. No one ate my potluck dishes, invited me to their book clubs, or asked me for a cup of sugar (perhaps they knew about the weevils). Unlike their kids, my children walked around with dirt on their faces, breakfast still on their shirts, and their disposable diapers swelling out of their pants.

Presumably this group of neighbors wasn’t spending their free time adhering seashells to lampshades, but in comparison to my life of total disorder they appeared to have it all together. Their gardens overflowed with flowers and when I visited their homes, specks of stray cracker crumbs didn’t riddle the floor. Occasionally I’d smell the aroma of freshly braised pork chops or lasagna from their kitchens and feel a tinge of shame. I wondered if the neighbors were able to detect