With the concept of an earned experience (not a toy or a thing) as the reward, the kids keep track of how many points they’ve each earned. Once they earn ten, they get to choose a special experience (a dino dig, afternoon tea, a family picnic, a day of fishing). The key factor: they’re not allowed to ask for a point. If they ask, they don’t get it. Also, particularly uncharacteristic behavior (like peeing on a wall) will snatch that point right back with a loss. It’s remarkable how they can recall exactly how many points they have at any given moment. Ask them how much 5 + 8 is, and I’m affronted with blank stares. But how many points they have? That, they always know. Lucas is at 9 points. Abigail earned a point this morning when she, completely unprompted, swept up the whole house AND whipped out the dustpan, filled the dustpan and successfully emptied it in the trash. Then, she decided to surprise me by quickly dressing, socks and sneakers, hair AND teeth brushed, without my ever having to ask. Love that girl.

I’m wondering if this reward system would work in marriage. I guess marriage itself is supposed to be the reward. Perhaps my reward should be a tour through a crock pot factory or a crack house. Because “marriage as its own sweet reward,” is not quite right. More like, “Oh, wow, that’s a crock and crack all rolled into one.” Side of bitter greens, please.

Truth: I don’t even know what I’d want as an experiential reward for good behavior. You know, aside from: peace. And…

A couples cooking class.
A food photography workshop.
Back to watercolor class.
A trip to Lego Land with the kids.
I’ve got it. What I want—aside from a vacation in Burma with a professional photography guide—is a family vacation in the Florida Keys. At Club Med. Oh, this has got to happen. And one of those days WILL involve deep sea fishing (without the kids) and a sushi dinner. I can’t wait. I love fishing! I also love my parents, love that they, my mother really, made it a point of including fishing in our lives early on. I am such a lucky girl. I really am so blessed. Plus, I’m having all the toppings I want today, ’cause I rage like that. Period.

Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are?

We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move.

You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel?

You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children.

—Pablo Casals
Spanish Cellist

Work brings Phil to New York for the next two weeks. He left yesterday, so today was day one as single mom. I’m happy to report that I avoided both wine and drugs—aside from the hormones I’m taking that make me want to yank people to the ground and kick them in the labia. It’s actually, and I’ve felt this before, liberating. I feel slightly guilty for having these giddy feelings, enjoying so much not having to compromise. I feel free. I don’t think this is how I’m supposed to feel, relieved. That can’t be good. But it feels like pudding time.

First thing I did when Phil left was sat the beans down for a chat about rules. With Papa gone for two weeks, things are going to change. Mama has her own way of doing things, and one of those things involves “no TV.” I was wholly surprised that I was met with no resistance. I’ve placed all the remotes in a high cupboard and it’s understood that we as a family won’t be watching television. They in no way feel it’s a punishment. In fact, I think they’re excited. Instead of their nightly “just one quick show?” it’s become “you mean I get to choose whichever book I want, no matter how long it is for a bedtime story?” And I love it. I feel like I’m nourishing their souls. It just feels right. It’s night two, mind you. I might want to drop-kick them on night thirteen.

After breakfast, I scrubbed floors and cleaned toilets. Very chic. Wiped noses, packed lunches, wiped an ass, washed hands. Did a French braid twice. Other accomplishments today: I researched kids lunches because they need more variety. Unsuccessfully shopped for jicama (really Whole Foods? Get it together). Fruit skewers. Bento buddies. Laptop lunchboxes. I’m giving Lucas an ice cream cone with a scoop of peanut butter, swirled with fresh sliced strawberries. He asks for peanut butter on everything; he’d eat it off a napkin. Tomorrow, they’ve chosen “Breakfast for lunch,” so we packed their lunches together. Granola, Greek yogurt, strawberries, waffles and the faintest trace of syrup, just enough for them to think they have a “side” of maple syrup instead of what it is: a single lick. Tomorrow night’s breakfast? Omelets and bacon. Dinner? Spaghetti tacos. Also up tomorrow: L&A begin gymnastics classes at Twisters after school. We’re all really looking forward to it. The place is truly kid (and parent, given their weekend drop-off hours) paradise.

I reorganized the fridge. It might not sound like a thrill ride, but I can tell you this much: it had me yodeling. Well, no. But I was likely singing show tunes as I rearranged, not needing to justify why I hauled all the fruits out of their bin, so they could be in plain sight for me (because I always forget shit is in there). With everything in it’s Stephanie-appointed place, I feel like I can breathe. Order, odd bits tucked away. It feels peaceful, and here’s this word again, freeing. No cluttered night table (I moved all of Phil’s stuff off his bedside table, so I don’t need to look at stacks of mail and work papers). It feels restful.

Without him here, I realize that I sometimes take Ambien because I resent always being the last person to fall asleep. What a strange thing to realize about yourself. I get irritated that he can fall asleep so easily, and that I toss and turn, with a day running through my head, thoughts pinging. And maybe I just want to avoid the TV/computer/iPad existence we’ve co-created. There was a time in my life when slipping into bed meant music and talking and sweetness, but maybe that’s just the beginning of things. Because all relationships start that way. Then eventually you’ve already heard their stories and fears and thoughts, or you don’t want to ask about them because they involve you and why they’re frustrated. This sounds sad, feels mean, feeling this. But without Phil here, bedtime feels delicious. I can slip under the covers, burn a candle and read a book. No fcuking sitcoms or channel surfing or basketball game in the background. If I’d like, and I do, I can fall asleep, as I used to do so long ago, to one of my favorite chick films, the ones I watch over and again, to the point where I don’t need to look up to know what’s happening on the screen. I’ve memorized every gesture and eyebrow. And I hope he’s enjoying not having to compromise, that he’s relishing his “Phil only” time.

I composed a kale, swiss chard, white bean chicken chili with curls of Parmesan. And Abigail devoured it without a single complaint of too many greens. Lucas didn’t want dinner−sweet boy has a cold, and he opted for bed, early. He is such a love, just sugar. After reading him his choice of bedtime story—and he did manage to find the longest book we own—he slipped beneath his covers and sighed. Abigail crouched beside him and pet his head before giving him a good night kiss. Then I sighed. Then Lucas said, “Your turn Mama because I could use more kisses.” Swoon.

Then I assembled the trash, yanking up garbage bags, at the ready for tomorrow’s AM collection. And then, quite catastrophically, the garbage disposal crapped out on me, stuffed and swampy, with floating strawberry greens and general nastiness. So I phoned Phil to complain, which no doubt made him sigh, if only to feel needed or useful from even far away. Though, he might say “There’s always something; why must you involve me? Can’t you just take care of it?” Or his favorite line, “Why when I have to do something, I do it, but when you have to do something, Stephanie and Phil have to do it?”  But he said none of these things. He texted me the handyman’s contact information, and that was that. Just shows that my “intuitive knowing”—those back and forth conversations I play at in my head—have to add to the shackled dynamic, the one I feel (mostly) free of when I’m alone. We all play a part, even when we pull double duty and play both of them.

I went to the gynecologist yesterday for an annual exam. I’m 36 years old. I know my period has been fucked up for over a year now, coming infrequently. I assumed it was because of the weight loss and stress of moving. The nurse asked me what I used for birth control, and I answered honestly. “Marriage.” I thought it sounded better than, “abstinence.”

Yesterday they took blood and also did an ultrasound of my ovaries. The doctor believed I had poly-cystic ovaries (my whole life, I’ve never heard this) which results in fewer periods, but a technician looked at my ovaries with a giant wand up the crotch and saw two cysts on one ovary and one cyst on the other, all smaller than 1-inch. With poly-cystic, he said, people have like six to eight cysts. He said he thought I was ovulating right now, consistent with my silky thin discharge (normal), and TMI, I know. He said I should take Provera for 10 days to bring on a period, and then he wants to start me on birth control, to regulate my period, so it comes more often than THREE times a year (which is how often I had it last year).

This morning, 8:27am, I get a message from him.

“Hi, Stephanie, this is Dr. Silfen. I got the results of your blood work. You’re not pregnant, as we expected. Your thyroid is normal, your prolactin level is normal. You’re estrogen level is high. And your FSH is in the menopausal range, which does not make sense. Your LH is very high, consistent to what I spoke about yesterday, PCO, poly-cystic ovaries, so what I’m going to recommend is that you take the Provera for ten days. I think you’re going to get a period, but if you don’t get a period, give me a call and we’ll decide what to do. But first let’s just take the medication and go we’ll go from there. Bye.”

So, now, I’m my father’s daughter. A wreck. I walk around the grocery store looking at people. Fat, thin, old. People buying ingredients, fondling fruit, living their lives. I feel removed from it, from the everyday, seeing daily events as motions. Medical news can shift things in your life, especially your perspective. Literally.

Lord love a duck! Here’s hoping that I soon, very soon, see spot run. Period.

I don’t want to be this mother, and I caught myself doing it, adding to the very atmosphere and co-created relationship I hate. I heard myself competing with another mother.

I’m a Montessori psycho. I actually went to Michael’s, sorted beads, bought jewelry supplies—clippers that resemble medieval torture devices—and am teaching them the decimal system. (I heard myself do it the other day-exactly what I hate!) I was bragging about MYSELF, not my kids. I was beyond obnoxious.

“Yeah, I’m teaching them odds & evens.” What is wrong with me?! Why would I do that? Clearly, I’m insecure. I feel like there’s some race, and I want to win it, but of course there’s no race. In fact, it’s the opposite, right? “It all goes by so fast,” so savor it, don’t race through it.

When conversations like that happen between mothers, it’s not even about the kids. It’s about the parenting. I want to believe I’m doing all that I can, but why would I say it aloud? I know I do what I can, know what I do, and that should be enough. I shouldn’t need to broadcast it on the bragging channel.

Why would I offer that up in conversation? Yes, she was telling me how her daughter reads full books, and it—I hate to admit this—hit a nerve. An old nerve. Because I’ve already made peace with this. Or have I? It’s amazing I can walk at all when I’m always tripping over my ego.

Hey, at least I’m aware. Next time I hear myself starting in, I’m going to ask my poor victim to smack my ass, to remind me that I’m being one. Because, truly, I don’t want to be this. I refuse to turn into this.

I will say this though. I genuinely enjoy teaching them math. Let me rephrase. I enjoy teaching them anything hands-on, anything visual. While I try to make practicing writing their letters and numbers fun, it’s hard work, and it takes a lot of patience, on everyone’s part. I try window crayons and markers, drawing in sand, finger paint, chalk, oil pastels, colored soap on bathtub walls. I try, my God, I try. But math is easier for me to teach—oh, the irony!—because it usually involves food. Baking is math heaven. So, there’s my excuse. By the way, evens & odds are very easy to teach to twins. I’ll post a video. Or not.

If this were a movie, I’d now be admitting how much I preferred the simpler birthday, what a self-revelation it was to discover that the unplanned mess of a birthday was better than anything you can plan. I’d maybe liken the experience to a child preferring the cardboard box to the toy within it. My life, though, is not that movie.

In the past, I spent weeks bookmarking entertaining ideas, pulling up Photoshop, designing gift tags, coordinating bags, labels and thank you notes. Yes, outfits that tied into the theme. And, no, it wasn’t just for me. The kids did appreciate and remember it all, down to the toppers on their cakes. This year, there was none of that. Was it any less of a birthday? No. Any more of a birthday? No.

I scrambled the day of their birthday to bake two cakes. These were not complicated layer cakes. They involved cake mix, fresh cream cheese frosting, homemade chocolate ganache, fresh whipped cream, but this year there wasn’t any sewing involved, just draping. With my cake stands still in Texas, the spread this year was… themed “around the house.” That’s right. Those upturned mixing bowls serve as excellent cake stands. An Ikea crib tent stowed away in the back of the garage cabinets, there’s your centerpiece. Gifts. We didn’t give them a single gift for their birthday.

With beautifully wrapped gifts flown in from grandparents and cousins, would our five-year-olds even notice fewer gifts from their own parents? No. They never noticed, or never made a point of mentioning it. They got it. They experienced their birthdays with us at Disney World. On the actual day of their birthday, we scooped them up from school, both still wearing their glittered classroom crowns, and escorted them to a 3D showing of Hugo followed by a dinner at Houston’s, then finally, eyes fighting to stay open, they ripped through birthday wrapping papers, jumped up and down the way you see in ice cream commercials. Though I can’t remember the last ice cream commercial I’ve seen. It’s something that doesn’t take much of a sell. Point is, we were all happy. It was low stress, intimate, and lovely. They got to blow out candles and watch their mother eat both their cakes, mostly while standing, leaning on the refrigerator door, eating with my fingers, re-wrapping it back up, then at it again.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it does all work. No one is upset, everyone is happy, everyone is tired, and I think we all feel that the day was special. I liked the way it was all thrown together, how it still worked to meet my own expectations. So the chocolate cake didn’t bake evenly and looks like a molehill—all the better to reach great heights.

I guess what I’m also trying to say is that no, it wasn’t my first choice, I would’ve liked more time, but the insight I’m gleaning into myself is that it’s okay when it’s not everything, when it’s not coordinated, when it really is just thrown together. I’m not drinking the water long enough to believe it’s better, this last-chance to-make-shit-happen-way, but it’s livable.