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.

The Bachelor, Ben Flajnik, sent Chicago girl Elyse Myers packing tonight. It happens. I have (almost) nothing to say about it other than these two things: 1) “What did I do wrong” is “the wrong.” Going there, blaming ourselves for “over,” is our single biggest mistake when we’re rejected; 2) Boca, all of Boca Raton, FL—aside from those with oxygen tanks—looks like this:

Sorry, but it’s true. I’m only 7 months in, and even at this point, I’m also sorry to say, it’s nauseating to look at her, to look at all the “hers”in Boca. Why? Seriously, what is it that’s such a turn off to me? She’s only 24, but she looks like a cougar. I actually feel terrible saying it because I’m sure she’s a lovely person and I don’t mean to take Florida out on the poor girl. But this is mostly what I meet here in Boca. What is it about her that screams Boca, and not, for example, LA? Perhaps it’s not just her photo here, but something else about her on The Bachelor? I doubt it though. When I see the overly tan brunette I think of Boca and half of Turtle Bay apartments in NY (Midtown, East Side – recent grads from Delaware and Syracuse).

At least we have phenomenal  weather. Seriously, to be wearing flip-flops and tanks in January is heavenly. Just dreamy. I don’t like the sun and prefer rainy days, but not having my snot freeze is such a joy. By the way, this is me trying to do positive.

Dominance. It’s been a theme that keeps ringing ’round, turning up at my stoop. To begin, when I first moved to Boca, I was invited to join a new book club that was in its infancy; I missed the first meeting, but I learned quickly enough that the group was eclectic, interesting, nice even!, but especially hardcore. While whips and strap on leather gag balls aren’t involved yet, the group is closed, not open to new members unless someone drops out, and there’s a courtesy gag order designed to discourage side conversations during meetings. It’s not an S&M club; they don’t, for example, permit book selections upward of four-hundred pages (I have a hard time committing to an entire magazine, so it truly would be my petite torture). More members than not will arrive to the meeting often having read not just the selection of the month, but the entire series following.

The book selection this month was 50 Shades of Gray, a Soft Porn Oprah Pick, about a woman who chooses a sexual relationship with a man with a predilection for dominance (think of James Spader in Secretary. Also, think of a riding crop smacking a clitoris into submission). There’s also these choice turns of phrase to consider: “the length of him,” “cupping my sex,” and the truly gag-worthy, “I shatter into a million pieces.” The novel is littered with cliched writing, for sure, but the plot pushes you through it, waiting for a surprise, something worthy of the build and text foreplay. My point is, dominance and it’s lady partner submission are top of mind these days.

Next stop: A Dangerous Method, a film about the relationship between Freud and Jung. Keira Knightley, a patient, gets wet at the thought of being caned. Honestly, if only I could matchmaker my way through film and books. That’s not a bad idea actually. I’m going to play at that.

Now I’m off to see Albert Nobbs, hoping to distract myself from my own thoughts of dominance and submission and how they turn up in my own life, over and again.

Okay, not for making out. But I feel very sexy when I’m able to apply makeup, when my makeup is organized and duplicated between cars, so I’m never all, “Shit, it’s in the other car!” These are my some of my favorites. I filmed myself for close to twenty minutes, mind you. But, no, this video is NOT 20 minutes. Also, Phil gets an extras credit.

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF3xDt2oINQ

In love.