All I really wanted for Mommy Day was a necklace made of plastic beads and macaroni, something I could wear with an evening gown to feel a little Overboard, a la Goldie Hawn. This want felt like it had grown up from Mother’s Days past, where all I really wanted was a gold charm bracelet, or bangles and baubles, or anything really from one of the many “Gifts to Celebrate Mom on Mother’s Day” magazine or web lists. Every year I feel disappointed that Phil didn’t write a card, didn’t have the kids make cards, did nothing more than make brunch reservations. I didn’t want to feel disappointment this year, so I told the kids that it was Mother’s Day Weekend, that they could cram in as much mom love as possible, in song and otherwise. Especially, I stressed, when said mom love could involve homemade waffles… with mini chocolate chips. Throwing in the detail of the chips makes them full-speed-ahead kids, ready with cheers and the insistence that they make me breakfast in bed, knowing that the chips will fall where they may (into their wee bellies). I printed out the recipe come Friday night. But when Phil and I returned from picking the kids up from gymnastics Friday night, he went into bed to rest, as I began to measure waffle ingredients. “I’ve made the batter,” I tell him, leaving the bowl on the counter with the remaining instructions and waffle iron. The batter sits on the counter overnight, with the yeast left to rise and double. Come morning, eggs and baking soda are added, then blueberries or chips.

Making batter for your own surprise breakfast in bed is like picking out the engagement ring before he proposes. It made me sad that I had to be involved to get what it was that I really wanted. If I really wanted the macaroni necklaces, it wasn’t enough to hint at it four times. No. I’d have to set the kids up at a table with string and beads and a box of noodles, otherwise, forget it. And that sucks. It sucks that I have expectations. It sucks that I want certain things and the only way to get them is to do it myself. Which is like buying your own jewelry. Even when you wear it, you always know you were the one who had a hand in it all, that on some level you forced it, stepped beyond hint into help. It’s just not the same.

I want to say that I appreciated everything just as it was, but I didn’t. There were no framed photos for a wall, no noodle necklaces or home projects with the help of dad. There was a bouquet of dyed flowers from the supermarket, bought not for me, but for the required “bring a flower to school for teacher appreciation week.” Maybe it’s just because of what I’m going through now with the latest health news–though I doubt it–but I felt undervalued. No gifts, no flowers, no cards, no photo or homemade gifts. Waffles of my own making.

If I have expectations that run too high, it’s because I grew up with this, with a father who always bought my mother flowers, special ones from a florist, bought cards and gave presents, engraved or otherwise. My grandfather, too, always celebrated my grandmother on holidays and ordinary days, with gift wrap and planning. They were spoiled. Or so it always seemed. Perhaps these women had to buy their own cards (the thought of this makes me cry), or perhaps they had to buy their own jewelry or put their children in a playroom, supervising sentiment. Maybe these things shouldn’t matter to me, but they do. Because I want to feel cherished by my husband, to know that he planned and schemed and made the effort at extra special that he knows matter most to me.

He made reservations and cooked my waffles. This isn’t the kind of disappointment I’d usually admit. But I’m feeling sorry for myself, despite all my blessings. I feel let down, as if I’m a spoiled brat who never sees the positive in things. Chooses not to focus on the fact that my husband took the time to research a restaurant I’d like for Mother’s day, that he made the reservations weeks in advance at a place with west coast oysters (my favorite) and lobster rolls and Blue Crab Eggs Benedict. I should focus on what I do have, that my family wanted more than anything to snuggle in bed with me. But instead I’ve chosen to feel sorry for myself and to blame and stew over what? In the grand scheme of things what does it even matter? Things don’t, but gestures do. But perhaps even with the gestures I’d then still want more, want things. And if there were things wrapped in gift paper, in velvet boxes, then perhaps I’d complain that there weren’t enough gestures. Maybe what I need to work most on is to be thankful for whatever it is I do have. Though while I try to do this, it’s very hard to look away from what I can’t see. That’ll take some work. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of thing one should be working toward, lowering her expectations. It’s just nothing I can imagine ever convincing my children to do for themselves. “Lower your expectations, so you won’t feel disappointment,” sounds like the shittiest advice ever. It’s advice I’ve heard from life gurus on tapes, but it’s advice I’ve never been able to stand behind… advice I seem to keep stepping in.

Instead, especially in light of my latest health news, I should be thankful that I’m even able to celebrate Mother’s Day, that I am in fact a mother with healthy children. I should be thankful that we can afford such a holiday brunch, that we were all together, safe, able to make toasts and laugh and love on each other. I need to be thankful of these gifts instead of wanting others, wanting things that in the end mean nothing. And that’s something to remember.

I just dug up this post from my archives (I still can’t believe I’ve been blogging for over eight years now) because for the past few days I keep circling back to this message; I’ve been hearing it everywhere. Perhaps it’s topical, presenting itself to me as a reminder to apply these learnings to my marriage. And perhaps I’m meant to share this again with you because you need to hear it.

Watching Oprah’s Life Class the other day, I heard the “Fake It To Make It” message once again. Keisha, a woman who chose to adopt her incarcerated brother’s little boy expressed her deep resentment toward her nephew, a hearing impaired child with Diabetes. He was hungry for her affections, and she confessed that she was at war with herself because while she didn’t want to damage this sweet boy, she also was deeply resentful, hating having to sacrifice, and didn’t want to hug him or give him the affection he so often craved. She wanted to find love elsewhere, wanted to pursue her degree in medicine, and he got in the way of her plans. Brave woman to admit to that truth. Intellectually, of course she realized he didn’t deserve any of this, that he deserved only love, but she couldn’t get past her feelings of “This isn’t fair! I never would’ve signed up for this had I known.” At one point, Oprah addressed the audience to remind viewers to look within their own lives, not at Keisha’s, and figure out where they are ignoring the love that’s right in front of them for the taking. Keisha was looking for someone to love, to start a real life, oblivious to the fact that this boy was that someone she could love. Yes, she wanted romantic love, a partner, but it was coming at her in a different form. The little boy, Oprah said, was there to help her open up some heart space. Bishop T.D. Jakes’s advice to Keisha was to fake it, that the feelings would come. Fake it to make it. I felt myself nodding.

Belief follows behavior. Sometimes you have to force yourself to invest in the choices you’ve made and to make the most of your situation. It can’t hurt to at least try. It was the message I needed to hear this week. Fake it to make it in every aspect of your life. Your job, your love life, even your health…

I took a Health Psychology class in college, where I learned, among other things, about the power of positive (and craptastic) thinking, particularly its impact on our health. I already knew that imagining myself making contact with the ball on a softball field would improve my chances of slamming the thing for real. That we can literally practice in our mind, visualizing it happening, and studies have proven that it works.

I also knew, as a writer, that I could elicit a physical response from words alone.
With just a paragraph of description, with nothing but imagery and words, we can cause a physical reaction. Simply describing, for example, the texture of a lemon, its pores, and slightly green tip. The resistance of a knife as it cleaves through the skin, cleanly. The sound of the knife pushing forward on the wooden board. The way the halves rock and teeter, laid out on their sides. How some of the seeds are left whole, small winks hiding beneath the translucent pockets of sour. Wiping the knife blade clean of the acrid juices, and that first squirt, clean and bright, a spray. Then pulling a wedge to my lips, taking that quick first lick, just to test, and the wince that comes after that first sharp taste, a sting and burn, and a bloom of saliva from the back of your jaws.

I could salivate just from reading it, a physical response to imagery. Then I studied the Placebo Effect, “the power of healing that can stem simply from a patient’s belief that a treatment will be effective.” Basically in a randomized and double-blind study, patients were divided into two groups: one received actual medication, and the other group was given a look-alike placebo pill. The study was double-blind, meaning not just the patients, but the doctors too had no idea which was which. And all the patients believed the pill would help them… and it did. Just the belief that it was working improved the patients’ health. This could be the reason so many people believe in the effectiveness of alternative medicines. In fact, “Ten years and $2.5 billion in research have found no cures from alternative medicine. Yet these mostly unproven treatments are now mainstream and used by more than a third of all Americans.”

The Placebo Effect has always fascinated me, not so much with regard to our health, or the validity of acupuncture or chiropractic treatments, but with how this concept of “belief following behavior” could be applied to my dating life.

The practice of forcing myself to date the men who were actually interested in me—the over-eager boring ones who never made me work for it, the ones who’d make great fathers, and put me first—was a test-study of the “belief follows behavior” axiom. If I forced myself to date celery instead of funnel cake (behavior), I’d soon actually believe that I prefer these celeriac men (belief). The same way that forcing yourself to smile even if you’re miserable (behavior), actually DOES make you feel better (belief). “If I’m smiling, I must be happy.” Then we actually feel happier. So if I forced myself to continue to date a man to whom I had no attraction (behavior), the assumption is that I’d grow to be attracted to him (belief). That’s why we hear so many stories of, “Well, I wasn’t attracted at first, but then the more I got to know him, the more I liked him.”

It extends beyond our dating lives, touching almost everything. Believe you’re already a thin person, you start to eat and behave like a thin person. Insert cough here. No need to worry; there’s a placebo for that.

A YEAR AGO: Food and Mood Dreams, Obsession Under Pressure
2 YEARS AGO: Not A Euphemism
4 YEARS AGO: Back in LA

Your Child’s Strengths is one of my favorite books, and my love for it really has nothing to do with children. Most “find your strengths” books come in Business Flavor, with strategies on leadership and how to energize your existing staff by identifying their strengths. While these books may allow you to narrow down if you’re “Analytical” or an “Ideation,” there you are, limiting yourself, and I’m not sure you’re learning all that much. I find it far more insightful to get a bird’s eye view of our lives, our decisions and habits, then to cull distinct strengths from observations across different pockets of our life.

Held within the pages of  Your Child’s Strengths are answers to who we are, each of us, and the answers aren’t written in paragraphs and inspirational stories of those often regarded as successful. The book, penned by Jennifer Fox, M. Ed. is loaded with prompts and exercises designed to reveal what your (child’s) strengths are.

It’s odd, don’t you think, that we are all too quick with a numbered list of our shortcomings, but we rarely have a quick answer to such a simple question: What’s special about who you are?

I’ve noted throughout the pages and posts of this Greek Tragedy blog that what makes us special is the fact that we’re here, that we’re born special, and I believe it. But we lose our way sometimes—I still feel my way through the dark wondering if I’m living my best life—and we’re not all striving to be our brightest selves each day, not when we become complacent and mired in our familiar.

The other night, I asked the beans to tell me one thing that was really special about who they are.

Lucas: My whole body is special because it lets me get stinky.
Abigail: My nose because it lets my boogies go in and out, in and out.

They were in a silly mood, a mood that lightened me. It wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I asked the question, but their responses made me realize how important it is for me to emphasize their unique qualities and strengths to them (focusing on things they can work on. Because saying, “you’re so smart” doesn’t give them pride. I think it starts to feel empty. I prefer, “I admire how well you were concentrating; what a wonderful quality you have of really paying attention during math games.” Strengths bloom and change with time, but what better gift can I give them than handing over my full attention, with a sharp focus on who they are, as originals, before they strive to become copies. It’s not just them, I owe it to myself to work through the same exercises, to really dig and reveal what my strengths are. One thing’s for sure, they’re not from my upper body.

Come, play along…
Your Child’s Strengths breaks strengths into four categories:
1) Activity Strengths
2) Relationship Strengths
3) Learning Strengths
4) Looking to the Future

Examine the activities you do at home. We have strengths often in one part of a sequenced activity but not in the whole. You basically do this simple thing, like washing dishes, and can extract insight from it, to apply to the rest of your life. Here’s an exercise from the book (I also love the idea of couples doing this exercise to learn more about each other).

Take two different colored pens or markers (for this example, green and red). Look at a list of household activities, and break them into at least 3 smaller parts. For example, “cleaning up after a meal” can be broken into clearing the table, washing the dishes, and emptying the dishwasher. So, you have a big list of things like: Cleaning up, cooking, grocery shopping, making the bed, doing laundry, decorating, organizing, dusting, etc… and you break each task into at least 3 parts… under the broad headlines of IN THE KITCHEN, IN YOUR ROOM, FOR THE HOUSEHOLD, FAMILY INTERACTIONS (Family Interactions: Shopping, wrapping gifts, entertaining guests, talking about problems).

Everything you list should either be underlined in red (hate doing it) or green (love doing it). Be Switzerland with nothing. Just pick a side, can you barely tolerate it or do you not mind it so much?

For everything underlined in green give no more than two sentences about what it is exactly that you like about the job. Do the same for red, what you DON’T like about them.

Now look at your green items. If you had to choose one job to do and you could stop doing all the rest, which is the one you’d choose to keep doing? Draw a PLUS SIGN beside it. Do the same for the red list, with one sentence about what you dislike most about this single job, adding a MINUS SIGN beside it.

Making The Connections
Make two columns on a page. WANT TO DO / DON’T WANT TO DO (here’s where it gets really interesting). Add the green items to the WANT list, reds to the DON’T WANT.

Now, fill in the following blanks with either an activity you said you enjoyed or one that you marked in green… repeat this with more than just that one (PLUS) activity. Perhaps choose your top three or five.

The part I like best is… (choose one of the three broken down elements)
If I could put what I enjoy doing about this activity into one word, the word would be….

Example:
I like this action: Grocery Shopping
Breakdown: Making the list, Choosing ingredients in the store, Arranging all the groceries at home
The part I like best is: Making the list.
One word that describes what I like best would be… Planning.

Now, look at the two words you came up with for that last part (because you did it with more than one activity. For brevity sake, I only included the one action: Grocery Shopping). You are going to use these to help you think of a few more things you do that you haven’t listed yet.

Next, fill in these blanks:
I feel energized when I am……….. BLANK.
Here is a list of other activities that involve using this word:……… BLANK.

Use your green pen to circle the activity you enjoy the most of the ones you just listed. Recall the last time you were involved in the activity. Then write five sentences describing what you were doing and when it was. Repeat these steps using the other word. These statements are the beginnings of understanding your Activity Strengths.

As a parent of young children, it’s my job to take notes of the activities my child naturally likes. For each activity, try to isolate the part that s/he most enjoys. I’ll know this by the amount of time spent on a task or by a visible sense of joy or deep concentration (like when they’re involved, faces contort, tongues stick out).

Another activity included in Your Child’s Strengths would make such a fun date night, and you can add alcohol (it’s also fun to do with kids). Bring a camera to a public place where lots of jobs are going on. The grocery store, train station, shopping mall, a school, sporting event, etc. Take 10-20 photos of all the various activities and jobs you see.

Look at the photos at home and write down all the tasks you can think of that are involved in each different job you photographed. For example, if you took photo of an umpire, list all the things you think an ump has to do, aside from constantly adjusting his balls. Then arrange the photos into groups of jobs that seem to have similar activities associated with them. Choose which jobs have the most activities that you think would appeal to you. Then discuss or write why, and which would NOT appeal to you.

I love introspection and learning about ourselves, revealing patterns in our lives, and I love that this is a gift I can give to myself and to my children.

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 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.

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Sir Luke surprised me this morning. I wasn’t drilling, just probing, assessing how much these sweet beans know. What do yellow and red make? “Orange,” he said without looking up. Blue and yellow? “Green.” Scoop of vanilla, scoop of chocolate, don’t waste my time, lady. Red and blue. “Yawn.”

Only he said “purple” in lieu of “yawn.” When I asked Abigail the same questions, she looked up at me. Guilty. “I don’t know my colors as well as I should,” she said in a way that kind of broke my heart. It doesn’t matter if she knows them or not, that’s not what hit me. It was that tone of apology. I know how hard that is, to admit—and make no mistake, that’s what it feels like, a huge confession, strung up in a net of shame—what we don’t know, what we’ve done or got wrong. I wonder now, only briefly really, if it’s a learned tone, something she hears in my voice when I speak with Phil. I doubt it, not because the tone isn’t knit into my sentences—it has to be, and even now I can hear it in my own mother’s voice, a voice I can replay from childhood—but because I’ve seen it everywhere for as long as I can remember. The problem is, I associate that apologetic choke of words with “knowing better,” an understanding between right and wrong. I don’t want my children to associate not knowing something with degradation.

I kiss her on the crown of her head, smelling her shampooed hair, a floral clean. Then I crouch to meet her eyes and explain, “Don’t ever feel bad about not knowing something, okay? I don’t know a gazillion million things! Know what you should feel good about? Wanting to learn, asking questions, and being curious. It’s one of the things I love most about you. Never stop asking questions.”

“Mama,” she asks, now smiling and full of sass, “Are we going to learn our colors or what?” Her hands are now on her hips. She is my rainbow.