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.

Phil doesn’t know how to “not judge.” He has an opinion on everything, and he’s going to share that opinion, whether or not you want to hear it. And he’ll be right, every time—because he says so. He now at least knows that he needs to allow that someone else’s opinion and perspective can be true, just allow even for the possibility, instead of insisting that his is the only truth.

Phil refused to return to couples therapy when our therapist told him that his behavior was bullying. He argues that this wasn’t the reason, that things were skewed, that he was tired of spending an hour talking about something that wasn’t even true. As in, I’d bring up an issue, revealing an instance in the past week resulting in an argument, and he’d reason that my slant on it was completely askew. That my perception shouldn’t even be discussed because “If you had a completely crazy person in your office, certifiable, would we be having this conversation about what I did wrong?” Phil once said. “No, of course not. You’d know you were dealing with a crazy person and would dismiss it focusing on the real problem.” This “real problem”—he suggested ever so subtly, like with a mallet to my head—lived within me, each and every time.

After Phil refused therapy, I went alone. During one of those sessions, our therapist leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, hands clasped in prayer at her chin and said, “That man loves you. I mean LOVES. And I truly believe that he wants, more than anything, to please you. I really do.” Then, sitting back in her chair, she added, “He just has really shitty delivery.” You said it sister. “And all you can do is try your best, for as long as you can, to see through it.” To remind myself that he really doesn’t mean the mean? “Yes, and you just do it for as long as you can because having your parents together is a gift you can give to those children. Believe me. I see it every day in this office, and it’s a hard road.” Though I can’t remember if she said “hard road.” I don’t remember how she even finished the sentence because I was still chewing on the earlier part. It was a gift I could give to my children. To stay. To understand Phil’s limitations, and trying as best I could to focus on the good in him. I can’t help but want to apply that logic to a battered woman. Would you tell her to stay because while he does hurt her, truly his intentions are good, and he’s just limited? I suppose though that my even applying that logic is like Phil amping his argument up with “crazy person,” going to the extreme. I justify my decision to stay. I see a hint of this, turning a blind eye, rationalizing that good qualities have to outweigh his select faults. But I also see the merit in gazing at the bright side. Focusing on the positive. It’s a conflict.

I cringe even writing the words, “Nobody’s perfect,” because it implies that one should endure the truly awful just for an abundance of greatness.

He’s not equipped with the communication skills to express his frustrations in a healthy way. I need to remember that it’s his deficiency, and I should not feed it with my focus. Move onward and try to get past his words, striving to understand from where he’s coming. Focus on the good.

He’s a great conversationalist
Quick to think on his feet – quick witted
Dependable – protective and always defends me
Not a mama’s boy
That he is evolved enough to live his life for him, without regard for what anyone else thinks of his choices (this is a double-edged sword, but overall, I wholeheartedly agree that we should strive not to care what other people think of us).
When he adheres to traditionally male gender roles: orders for me in restaurant, stands when I come to the table, pays the check, pours the wine, surprises me with gifts
I love when he appreciates/ values when I’m “the woman,” relying on my taste when it comes to interior design, entertaining, style
I love when he’s the suitor, when he pursues me, grabs me, initiates, acts like a horny teenager who can’t get enough
I love that Phil strives in every way possible to achieve the best for our family
He’s hardworking and determined
A caring involved father
A fantastic negotiator
Excels at things I hate: like dealing with health insurance and banking
He’s a champion, advocate, and promoter
He’s an idea man, never boring
He’s reliable/ dependable
You always know where you stand with Phil – he’s not a cheat or liar
Warm-hearted
Diligent
Thoughtful
Selfless
Supportive
Entrepreneurial
Initiator/ go-getter
Enthusiastic / Energetic
Confident
Assertive
Passionate
Committed
A Pioneer
Strong
I love when he comes to me and admits something he didn’t have to admit (strength of character)
I also love his arms and when he tries to get me drunk

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‘ve been telling the kids how we’re going to do a “day in the life slice” of their lives. Similar to the book, What Happens on Wednesdays, filled with all the activities that happen in a day. Then I imagined how my watercolor captioned life might look documented on the pages of a storybook.

Awoke naked, with coughing in my ear. Without having to open my eyes, I know it’s Abigail. I know her cough. What are you doing in here? I thought I told you you couldn’t come in. “I told her she could” Phil says. “Oh, okay.” A few minutes later, I feel Lucas climbing on me, whining that he wants to “sleep next to Mama.” I am beyond tired, trying to catch up on a weeks worth of too little sleep. It doesn’t work that way. Fine, Lucas can sleep next to me, so long as it’s only my feet. I can’t have two sick children coughing in my face. It was one thing when Abigail was coughing into my hair and ear, but to have another one right up in my face is too much sick. I roll over and turn, throwing my body to the opposite side of the bed, with my head at all their feet. Lucas will have no part in this, insisting he sleep next to all of me, not just my feet, so he joins me down below, yanking covers over both our heads. Now I’m in a contained bubble tent of sick as he coughs into my hair and ear. I fall back asleep.

Eventually, and it could be minutes later, they’ve stirred out of bed, and I’m alone, sleeping. Phil walks in, asking what the deal is with breakfast bars, can they have one. “Yes,” I say.

“And you’re getting up now, right? You’re taking care of their breakfast, right?” FUCK OFF. “Yes, I’ve got it,” I mumble, not moving. Phil leaves to give them breakfast bars and make their lunches, a duty he thankfully agreed to take care of daily. I ghost walk to the shower, where I condition, shave, and brush. Towel up, deodorant, leave-in conditioner. Sports bra, thong, tank, running shorts, hair still in a towel. No makeup or sunscreen. No socks or shoes.

In the kitchen, I take down two bowls, fish out two spoons, milk, whole-grain Kix, napkins. They’re still in their pajamas. I ask if they’d like fruit. They don’t. Today, I don’t argue. Despite the shower, I’m still in a half-zombie sleep. They’re at the kitchen table eating, asking for TV. “Not today,” I say. They don’t argue. I’d asked Phil twice yesterday, and twice the day before that, if he’d please cut up the melon (a cross between a honeydew and cantaloupe) because I can never get a knife through, ever. He hadn’t done it. Lucas protests about the Kix. He’s never tried them. He wants something else. “Not today,” I say again. He tries them, likes them. “Yummy,” he says. “Mikey likes it,” I say.

I sort through papers on the kitchen counter, piles of them. Handouts from school, announcements, birthday party invitations. I remember that we need curiously strong, but tiny, magnets. I don’t have time to add it to my list (I’ll do it now). A list is due soon where we itemize Kindergartens for which we plan to enroll. There’s a splash-a-thon on Sept 20 or 21st, where they need sponsors. I have to submit money and ask people. I hate that my to-do list is taking over my life, and that I’m not getting any work done, at all. I don’t add it. I find strawberry hulls and stems in a Montessori activity bowl. I pick them out, toss them, wipe down the counter and add random plates to the sink. The kids are finished eating. I tell them to please get dressed, remembering that Lucas has waterplay, which means he needs a plastic bag, a towel, a change of clothes. I collect these things and add them to his backpack. Their breakfast bowls are still on the table. Lucas is in his bedroom, putting on his swim gear. Abigail is pretending to get dressed. Likely making piles of books, playing Octomom with naked dolls, tucking stuffed animals into her bed. “Brush your teeth,” I yell out. I know that they won’t.

Phil walks into the kitchen to say goodbye. “Can you please cut up the melon?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Please, I asked you twice yesterday, and you’d said you’d do it.”
“No. Do you know why? Whenever I ask you to do things, you always give me pushback. Always. You always have a reason why you can’t do something. I can’t even be sick, I can’t have that even, without you saying that you’re sick too. Everything always involves you, is always about you and what you need.”

Does this tank top say DUMP ON ME or UNLOAD or TAKE IT ALL OUT ON ME? I don’t know where this is coming from. He’s stressed at work. There’s a move. He always feels as if he shoulders everything. Nothing here is really new. He will attribute everything this morning to what I did wrong. How he had to wake me, how it shouldn’t be his job. He doesn’t let up.

“Could this stuff not always be lying around?” “This stuff” is a pile of 2 catalogs, 3 thin magazines and a pair of green safety scissors. I’d taken them out on Monday night for Lucas’s “Show and Teach” project for the letter “Dd.” Each week he is to find three objects that begin with the featured letter of the week, to cut them out, paste them to a piece of construction paper, and “Show and Teach” the rest of his class on Tuesdays.

Last night Phil complained that he wanted to be able to eat dinner on a clean table without having to move things. “Things” was a single lunch tray I’d set out for a learning activity. On it were sight words I’d cut out. I work with the children constructing funny sentences on the tray, an activity they love to do. Phil does plenty of things, especially roughhousing physical stuff that I don’t like to do—wheelbarrow racing with Lucas to strengthen his shoulders and improve his low muscle tone. I read to them. I research learning activities. I tape words throughout the house that correspond to the letter of the week at school. I find tins and fill them with miniature pompoms, add tweezers and have them sort the pompoms by color—a fine motor skill task. I try to present a new game each day after school. I do it at the kitchen table… the only table in the house where they can sit still and where I have their full attention.

Phil tells me he’s tired of having to always move things. “I know you have a hard-on for Montessori right now. I know that’s your ‘Bet, ba, ba, bet. Bet,’ that you’re single-minded about it, that it’s your pet of the month, but you don’t have to involve me and make me read the books. You want to do it, God bless, but I shouldn’t have to see it, move it, or have anything to do with it.”

And by “it” you mean “teaching our children,” I think. I am angry. I know he’s a wonderful father, an involved father. That he really does want the best for them, but right now, it feels like he’s not fighting with me about a philosophy or teaching method. Since moving here, without a nanny to pick them up from school, I’ve become very involved in teaching the children, organizing a playroom, making arts and crafts always available to them, building blocks and age-appropriate puzzles, lacing toys, etc. I don’t turn on the television. I’m making a real effort. And it’s insulting to hear him refer to the interest I’ve taken, how hard I’m trying, as a single-minded hard-on that I’ll lose interest in at any moment. It’s hurtful.

“I shouldn’t have to move this cup of crayons every day,” he says. I want to scream, TOUGH SHIT. IT’S FOR YOUR KIDS. WHO CARES IF YOU HAVE TO MOVE IT EVERY DAY IF IT MEANS THEY’RE LEARNING?! I am angry. Why doesn’t he research the games and make it fun for them to learn? Read to them under a fort with a flashlight the way I do? Because he’s not me. I’m not even asking him to be. What I am asking for is for him to back the fuck off and shift his focus. If he wants the house to be orderly and clean all the time, he can hire a housekeeper.

Yesterday he wanted a gold star for cleaning the toilets, as he’d promised he would. And I gave him the verbal equivalent of one. “Yes, thank you for doing them! They smell nice and clean! Thank you.” He had to ask me if I’d noticed. And I realize it would have meant more if I’d offered the thanks without a prompt.

“And look at these bowls on the table,” he adds pointing to their breakfast remnants.
“Phil, are you kidding me? I’m in the middle of sorting through papers and cleaning, and you want to—“
“They’ll still be here when I come home from work.”
“No, they won’t.”
“There’s always something. And why did you move things off my bedroom side table?”
“I told you I was moving them. I asked first. I put them into your bedside table drawer because we were having people over.”
“What I mean is, why do you bother moving my things, when your bedside table is a mess right now?”
“Yes, right now it is full of books and medical records because I have to take Abigail for her pre-op appointment tomorrow with a new doctor, and…”
“And you always have an excuse.”
“Phil, if people were coming over, I’d shove that shit in my closet. I wouldn’t have everything out. But they’re not coming over.”
“Like I said. An excuse for everything.”
He leaves the kitchen. I am fit to be tied.

Yes, the children should have put their bowls in the sink. Of course. I also have priorities. There is still a towel on my head. The kids still aren’t dressed. I haven’t taken my vitamins or eaten anything. Their backpacks still aren’t packed. None of us is wearing shoes. I’ve HAD IT.

“Forget Friday,” I say. I am in the kitchen by myself, still sorting through school papers, pushing window crayons back into their box. I know he is in the living room but that he can hear me. “Just forget it. There is nothing to celebrate. I am not happy. I can’t live like this. I don’t want you to get me anything. There’s nothing to celebrate.” Friday is our five year wedding anniversary.

I can’t even say things are at their worst. They aren’t. This is bickering. It’s small stuff, but it feels bigger than small. I think because I feel worn down. I’m tired. I want to be with someone who gets me. I also know that these types of arguments would happen with anyone, do happen. But maybe in that scenario one of us would make a joke, offer up some levity. This isn’t even a shouting match. We’re not yelling. I don’t know how I feel anymore, but “like celebrating” isn’t it.

Phil leaves for work without saying goodbye. And I am relieved. We need to leave for school in fourteen minutes. Abigail is finally dressed, though she’s pulling at her skirt and doesn’t like the clothes she’s picked and put on.

Gel in my hair. Vitamins. My socks, sneakers. Her socks are too big. Cream on her chin. Sunblock on faces. Lunches into backpacks. She says she wants to wear long pants. “Not an option,” I say, presenting her with hers. We’re finally in the car—the one Phil had said I “keep a mess by letting them bring toys in.” I remember that I need a gym bag and my wallet, run back inside, quickly grab my laptop and charger. We’re finally on the road.

We arrive on time. Kisses, hugs, see you later after Karate. Abigail’s clothes don’t match, teeth aren’t brushed, hair is brushed but without barrettes, and I don’t care. I get to the gym, grab water with lime, step onto the elliptical machine and realize I have not packed headphones. I have not packed my surf-shelf. I cannot use the laptop I’d packed. Going to the gym without headphones is about as productive as a sterile man. I walk out.

I pull into our driveway and feel compelled to clean out the car, rid it of tissues, cup lids, broken necklace beads. I should be working, but instead, I clean because I don’t want to hear it. Inside, I put on rubber gloves. Forget the work list I have waiting for me, the life part of my life. I wipe down the kitchen table. Clean dishes and drinking glasses, load a dishwasher, water a plant. I’m still angry, and it’s not even noon.

Worse still, I know there’s a whole other side to this story. Or, perhaps that should read “better yet.” For better or worse, I should not have cleaned; I should’ve worked. I know that parts of that other sided story will be valid. That I, too, could stand to re-shift my own focus, that I could try to be more sympathetic about how things feel in his shoes, as the sole-provider in this house, the only income with a family full of wants and enrichment classes and thinner clothes. That lately I’ve been so quick to bow out, to walk the careful steps of “I should walk out,” that I haven’t been trying. I’ve been blaming. And hiding. Avoiding. I also know that I’m not always as decent as I paint myself out to be and that every relationship is co-created. I also know that watercolors can be diluted. But if you don’t lift a mistake off the page quickly enough, it leaves a permanent stain.

Phil is already complaining. He’s comparing—dare I say it—WAL-MART’S. “The Wal-Mart here is just not what it is in Austin. Not even close.” Well, it’s not like we’re buying in bulk anyway. ‘Cause this here storage situation ain’t what he thought it was.

I agreed to move into this home, sight unseen. Phil checked it out, sent me video, and assured me that there was “an absurd amount of storage space. More than we have now. And, there’s a great closet for you in the bedroom.” Done. Besides, hello, I lived in Manhattan for most of my adult life.

So, I started packing, and packing, and packing some more. “Are you sure,” I asked as I built another wardrobe box, “that there’s a lot of storage space? Because all these little things add up.”

“Positive. No question.” His statement was, after all, 100% correct—when you strike out the “positive” and “question.”

When Phil surveys our inventory he gets that not-so-fresh look. “What? What?”

“I might have been wrong.” Words worth framing.

“It’s okay. We’ll be fine. Besides my handbags can pass as art in the living room.”

WEEKS LATER…

Phil’s co-worker strolls into Fourbucks, stops to chat it up with me, then spills that Phil’s complaining about closet space. “Listen,” he says, “I told him that even I will admit to having some of my things in our guest room.”
“Exactly! I’m the girl. He does not get to be the girl.”

Our first-world closet situation:
There is one double-decker closet in our bedroom, fit with pull down hampers, belt racks and valet rods, a granite countertop and glass doors for off-season sweater storage, lined jewelry drawers with locks. It’s dreamy, even if it is small. There’s also nowhere in this closet to store any longer items, like dresses. But, steps away are two more closets, where behind sliding mirror doors, are rows of shelving up to the ceiling and hanging space for dresses.

“Down Under” man bar hiding beneath my hemlines

I’m not much into folding things other than workout garb, so he can have all the dressers and all the shelves (except for one… for the workout clothes). As it is, I brought very few pairs of shoes with me, thinking there wouldn’t be room (also, another reason to shop).

There is also a guest bedroom with another full walk-in closet, not as large, but also designed with jewelry drawers, a pull down hamper, shelving, tie racks, you name it. But it’s not in the master bedroom. Phil suggests that I put some of my things in this guest closet along with his things, asking if he can put some of his belongings in the master bedroom closet. Basically, he’s now backtracking and the closet he once was insistent that I take for myself, he now wants a part of.

“Because when I shower in the morning, I want a place to put my stuff.” Yes, it’s called the floor, my friend.

My big-girl-voice response is parboiled down to two words: “Vegetable Drawer.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that.”

I can’t put fruits or asparagus in the vegetable drawer, why? Because that shit will get slimy or rot on me if it’s not within plain view. I’ll completely forget it’s there, rendering it useless. Same goes for my clothes. I need to see them. I need to see everything. Art supplies, neatly on a shelf within a cabinet: yes. Piled one on top of the other in a box? No. Even my pantry needs to be tiered, so I can see each and every item, with the cans in the back up on a riser. The deep freezer is my idea of disorganized hell without a detailed CURRENT LIST, split into left and right columns (representing the respective sides of the freezer) naming each and every item within.

This is one of those things you can’t change about a person. I can’t change the actual mechanics of what type of learner I am. I’m the type who had to re-write class notes several times to learn the material. I am a visual learner and during tests I could actually visualize the area on the page where the information was written. If I can’t see it, I forget it. Sorry, but it’s true.

Yes, that’s exactly why long-distance relationships never quite worked for me. Out of sight, out of mind. Absence will never make my heart grow fonder.

Seriously, holy fuck. Too much. This is all too much. When I moved from New York to Austin, went from single in the city to married and Peg Perego in the ’burbs, it was a culture shock, but it was somehow manageable. But this, being thrown into full-time mothering and full-time Long Island is too much to take.

Today: Wake up when my mother-in-law gently wakes me, “Stephanie? It’s 7:45.” From there, I must groom somewhat, find clothes and shoes, remember my phone and wallet. Then, off to pick out kids’ clothes (already set out the night before), coax the cutlets out of their jammies, chase after naked cutlets, remind male cutlet that his extra bit is not, in fact, a handle. Bathing suits on, then arguments and squinting offspring begging to go without sunblock. Rubbing. Spraying. Double-check backpacks for clean towels, extra plastic bag for wet garments, Band-Aids for Little Miss, water-shoes on, wrong foot. Where’s your cover-up? Running shoes packed in backpacks along with dry clothes, underwear and more sunblock. I can’t imagine the nightmare that would be my life if I now had to make lunch.

Goal: 9am arrival at school. It takes 7 minutes door-to-door. But first, breakfast dishes off the table into sink, hands washed, teeth somewhat brushed if you can call it that. No, you cannot watch “Max & Ruby.” “My eye stings! Mama, you got sunblock in my eye!” “Mama, I need a new Band-Aid for my chin.” It was never, ever, this hard in Austin. What’s different? A fucking backpack.

I never cared if we were a few minutes late. There was always a quick pit stop at the bakery if there was no time for breakfast. I never had to worry about two sets of shoes, extra clothes, clean towel, or a chin. I could leave dishes in the sink, knowing sugar ants weren’t going to take over the world. And if we were late, they’d only be missing a few minutes of playground time, not “work time” with tracing letters, drawing triangles, properly holding crayons, cutting, and tracing their names.

Arrive 10 minutes early, doors are locked. I want to hang someone. Once inside, I eavesdrop, hearing an assistant teacher speaking with a parent about “patching.” I interject, mentioning that Abigail is just starting to patch… again… more religiously this time. Parent asks me if I have a good doctor. We just moved here… Dr… K- something. “I hope not Dr. Kanterman.” Yes, that’s right. She doesn’t respond “Oy—” but she shares some other choice words. I grab her phone number and the name of the Ophthalmologist she swears by. The aforementioned Ophthalmologist Abigail had seen last Wednesday insisted she didn’t need surgery, so long as she could control the wandering (which she can, but she does it often when tired or spacing out). Her eye isn’t a lazy eye, where the eye turns in. The doctor explained that there was no “age window.” He said that for what she has, you can correct it at any age, but for now, there’s no reason. Do I need this second opinion?

“All I’m saying,” Parent tells me, “is that he misdiagnosed my daughter and gave my son the wrong prescription. But go ask other mothers. Though, I’m sure you’ll hear.” Awesome. Another to-do, to-worry. Because what if there is a window?! I want to jump.

Parent invites me to join her and a few other mothers with kids in the class for frozen yogurt after school. I am relieved and grateful, looking forward to it!

Returns to Tuesday Morning, a good half hour of returns (aka more purchases). Dunkin’ Donuts for the mother-in-law. A call to Costco to ask about veal. All in a morning’s work. No veal, call Publix. Veal. Pickup, panko seasoned crumbs, more eggs. The butcher de-bones five skin-on chicken breasts for my lemon & shallots chicken dinner with parmesan risotto. I want to surprise Phil with a tray of blondies. I buy chips.

Home. It’s noon. Pickup time is 2:45pm, so I have two and a half hours. And I spend it unpacking in a garage and working a king size comforter into a duvet, resorting to safety pins. The bottom of Lucas’s train drawer gives in. Trains, tracks, and bridge trestles everywhere. Mother-in-law is frying up her son’s favorite veal cutlets, needs plates, dishes need cleaning, dishwasher needs unloading. Breakfast table needs a wipe down. The Roomba is stuck in a lopsided crack. It’s 2:45pm, and I look like a band of aggressive-looking lowland gorillas have had their way with me.

Exhausted guppies. No more nap time at school. Eyes wandering on the both of them. “It’s hot, mama.” “I cut myself, mama.” Yogurt will make everyone chill the fook out.

The rest is a blur. At one point, Lucas was lying on the cement, that ready for a nap. Where are you from? What do you do? You look familiar. Where do you live now? What does your husband do? Are there any Jews in Austin? Do you play Words With Friends? I tell them yes, I do, but share that I won’t play with them. “I cheat,” I say plainly. They stare. “What? I do. Now there are no lies between us.”

The women are incredibly welcoming and inclusive, inviting us to swim tomorrow afternoon after school, setting a play date at a water park for Monday. Tomorrow, I can’t help but think, I have to bring Abigail to the plastic surgeon after dropping Lucas off at school. She still can’t soak her chin or get it wet. No swimming. I *know* the plastic surgeon will have to do something. The scab has come off, and the wound is no longer bleeding, but it is OPEN. It has healed OPEN. I am absolutely dreading tomorrow. Kids are climbing trees. Kids are eating donuts. I don’t let mine, especially not after chocolate yogurt, M&M’s and Oreo toppings.

The gas light is on. OF COURSE IT IS. Mother-in-law requested chocolate yogurt with some kind of chocolate topping. I remember just as I buckle the kids into the car. No fucking way.

Gas station. Drive-through for chocolate frosty for Grandma. Home. Carrying in artwork and backpacks, heavy with wet towels. The garage door opener hasn’t been programmed, so I must manually plug in a code. It’s 5pm. They need to be asleep by 7pm. They haven’t had dinner. They haven’t had their bath. Lucas is out of clean underwear. I bang my head against the wall and remind myself that I have my health.

Spot-treat stains, pre-soak, search for color-safe bleach, gather more laundry, unload backpacks, clean out my own mouth. Put a baked potato with broccoli and cheese onto plates, placemats, napkins, waters, forks. No one wants to eat. Abigail has chocolate yogurt stains from her neck to her china. Naked kids, not a handle, no one wants to see that. Grandma, can you please give them a bath?

Email? Blog? What’s that?

Recipe. I now know why the Contessa was barefoot. Measure wine, squeeze lemons, peel and dice shallots, cube butter, is this oil rancid? Measure salt, grind pepper, “listen to Grandma!” How long does this motherfucking piece of shit electric stove take to heat?! What does Ina mean 12-inch cast-iron skillet? Messerfecker. Wash chickens, dry chickens, pre-heat oven. Make sure NON-cast-iron 12-inch pan fits in said oven (just barely). “Give it back, Lucas!” “No, Abby. I had it first.” “I want to do it myself!” “Mama, help me!” I dig through drawers for pj’s and tomorrow’s clothes. No one wants to eat.

Phil phones from the office. All I can think, “Don’t even think of telling me you’re going to the gym.” What I say, “How are you? Me? My day was great. Really great.” He’s tired of hearing everything out of my mouth be a negative. “You don’t have to lie,” he says. “Just come home,” I say. I wipe away stress tears. The oven alarm sounds. It’s pre-heated. Season chickens, heat oil, stir wine, lemon juice, shallots, bring to boil. Thank goodness I made the risotto last night. Forget the blondies.

Grandma makes egg salad sandwiches. The kids eat them. I would’ve let them go hungry. The TV goes on. Oil pops and sprays. I forgot to pack silicone potholders. These suck! Grandma burns herself on the handle when I ask her to check if the chicken looks done. Forgot to pack a thermometer. Phil’s home… eating a cheese steak sandwich. “Please,” is all I can say as I feel my eyebrows pinch together, dog face cry held in.

“Lucas needs OT again. He can’t draw a straight line with a crayon. He just doesn’t push down.” Thera-putty. We didn’t do thera-putty today. We didn’t practice. They’re exhausted. We’re all exhausted. This is going to take time. I stir the cream into the reduction; it’s a perfect swirl of sauce, unbroken and delicious. I wish I could say it wasn’t worth it. I take a moment, breathe, drink my wine, think on it, bite, relax. Plate the risotto, a pool of sauce, golden crispy chicken, sauce.

Phil asks what the wet clothes are on the floor outside of the laundry. “Their wet towels from school, plus the rest of the laundry that still needs washing.”
“You mean the laundry you said you spent today doing?”
“You didn’t just say that.”
“What, you have one load of wet laundry still sitting in the washing machine and another pile on the floor, nothing in the dryer. What did you do all day?”
“Stop judging.”
“Who’s judging?”

We eat at the table. Phil does the dishes. I tuck the kids into bed and read them a bedtime story. Teeth have not been brushed. I hug stuffed animals. I lower the fan. I come back to turn on a nightlight. It’s likely 8:15pm. I have to do this all again tomorrow, plus a swimming play date and a plastic surgeon. We’re going out for dinner. I’m not cooking again until I hit some kind of stride a la Kramer v. Kramer and the French toast kick-ass moments.

“What can I do?” Phil asks at 10pm. I’ve been here in the bedroom, stowed away rant-blogging my day as Phil and his mother watch USA on TV in the living room.

He doesn’t understand it and can’t see about what I have to be stressed. As in, if he were doing it, it would all be done hours ago, because he’s efficient and can prioritize, whereas, I’m a mess. He doesn’t say any of this. I know he thinks it. KNOW. Also know he resists saying it. And he’s kind of my hero when he offers, “I can go out and get you anything you want. What do you want?”

I look up at him, so grateful, so exhausted, and manage to peep, “Blondies?”

He’s on it.