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.

The other day, with Abigail and Luke snuggled up against me in bed, I read aloud to them from The Berenstain Bears Get in a Fight. I’ve saved a lot of books from when I was a child (yes, the entire Sweet Valley High collection—who didn’t want to be Jessica Wakefield with her straight, long blond hair?), and aside from Curious George Goes to the Hospital (where that silly monkey eats a puzzle piece and needs an operation), The Berenstain Bears were my favorite. I’d study each illustration so intently that my mother couldn’t turn the page until I’d taken in every last detail. In particular, I loved to inspect the Bears’ tree house, especially when it was lit up from the inside like a pumpkin.

I read to them from my own childhood book, it’s pages creased, marked thinner with time. Mama Bear explained the concept of fighting to her cubs. “We get angry, even call each other names and say things we don’t mean—and after a while it’s over.”

Like I do with most books I read to them, I asked the beans what they’d learned and if they had any questions. “Sometimes,” Lucas said, “we get mad at each other, and we feel frustrated and angry, and—”
“Yes,” Abigail interrupted, “but it doesn’t mean we don’t love each other, right Lucas?”
“Right, Abby.”
“But you both know that it’s okay to feel angry, right? We all get angry and feel frustrated sometimes, but that’s never a reason to push or scream or hit.”
“Right, ’cause that’s bad manners,” Lucas said.
“Yes, but Mama? Sometimes we yell at Kini ’cause he doesn’t listen, even when I yell real loud and say, ‘Kiniiiii, come heeeere! Time to get your meatball!”

After explaining the difference between yelling to beckon someone and yelling in anger, it was time to eat. Phil had just returned with dinner. The taters climbed into their chairs, and as always, we took turns around the table, each sharing our favorite part of the day. When it was Luke’s turn, he said his favorite part of the day was, “Snuggling in bed with Mama as she read stories.”

Phil asked Lucas and Abigail to tell him about one. Once they ran through their explanations about fights and anger and love, Phil took a moment, then turned to each of us in an uncharacteristically solemn way.

“I want to tell you that I’m sorry if I yell at you, or if I yell at Mama. I shouldn’t do that. It’s wrong. And I’m going to try super hard to stop yelling because none of you deserve that. And I’m really sorry.” It was unprompted and just about the biggest thing I’ve ever seen him do.

“That’s okay, Papa. I accept your apology, and no more yelling because it’s not nice.”
“That’s right, it’s not. And if I do yell, please tell me. Because I don’t want to yell. Especially not to you or Mama.” He looked at me with tears in his eyes as I wiped away my own.

That is the man I married, a man I haven’t seen in a long time. It’s not as if I’ve heard it all before. In fact, I can’t remember a single time when he’s admitted any real wrongdoing. This was, without a doubt, new territory. Still, I couldn’t help but think, actions speak louder than words, and it’s not just about yelling. Though these particular words were certainly a start.

“I’m going to try very very hard at this, Stephanie.” Huge. Totally huge for him. And as much as he’d deny it, I think it’s in no small part due to what he’s read from readers of this blog. So, thank you, each and every one of you, skeptics and optimists alike.

When things feel less immediate and raw and start to feel lighter, when all of this isn’t top of mind, that’s when it will matter most. I have my fingers crossed hoping this promise doesn’t wear thin with time. I also know the only way to truly keep at it is to commit to it fully. Promises sometimes aren’t enough. Intention isn’t enough. Because it’s never that easy.

An odd analogy perhaps, but It’s why, no matter the week I’ve had, come Friday (or Saturday), I get on the damn scale. Not my home scale but in front of an actual winged-hair person. Accountability. That’s why I’ve been able to shed 24.6 pounds in no time at all. Because I’m forced to face it even when I think I’ve got it all under control. That’s exactly how I feel about couples’ therapy. Eventually, you become a “Lifetime Member,” where you no longer need to attend weekly sessions. You show up for a refresher now and again, just to be sure you’re staying on track. We need the “I just ate a box of truffles in my car” kick-start version: Weight Watchers for our fat relationship challenges.

I know, too damn well, how impossible change can feel. It’s really hard to un-do what you’ve been doing for thirty years. Awareness might be baby steps, but at least the steps are moving in the right direction, and Phil is not alone. I too have, oh, a neat dozen or so things I can improve about my own behavior. In the meanwhile, we’re on the hunt, not just for a home, but for an exceptional (and my requirement: strong) therapist… in Boca.

It’s not that I don’t like Jewish food. I just tend to associate it with people who don’t know how to cook. They’re the types who put mini marshmallows on their Thanksgiving sweet potatoes and who eat cottage cheese mixed with macaroni. I can’t help but think of dining room wallpaper, phlegm cleared into a handkerchief, sun-spotted hands, and a crystal dish with mounds of chopped liver. Moth balls, gold-rimmed stemware, and a bathroom with a built-in, painted-closed, laundry bin.

Now that I’m a mother with a son who breaks into tears when he thinks someone else has asked his fourth question, Passover is becoming ours—something old that we can push into a new shape. It’s a world of suffering and tradition, of tights and temple—studded with matzo balls, ball jokes, and four glasses of wine.

Phil wanted to sprint through the Seder. No, wait, that’s totally unfair. What he wanted was no Seder at all. Whereas I wanted to leaf through the Haggadah page by page, prayer by prayer, in song, in English, and in Hebrew. Not the five-hour version, but the 45-minute adaptation. But each and every time I began to read a new section of our modern (think iPad), abbreviated, simplified, Haggadah, Phil would interrupt with a, “Yada, yada, yada. Okay, wonderful. Let’s move it along.”

And, man was I pissed. Like, plague pissed. Could you be any more disrespectful?

Had I said as much, he would’ve countered with his all-time favorite adjective: selfish. “Stop being so selfish and think of what other people want,” he’d say. And, there would be no winning. Nothing I could say. I’ve learned this much. I’ve also unfortunately learned to fight it out with myself, playing both sides of our conversations, anticipating his retorts. I can have heated arguments, complete with eye-rolls (another form of disrespect of which I’m dead-guilty), and he doesn’t even need to be here. It’s “Intuitive Knowing,” when you believe you know what the other person will say, without their uttering a syllable. Only it can extend beyond words and sentences into anticipated behaviors.

He bullied his way through the Seder, motioning with his hands for me to hurry up and get on with it. I had wanted to talk to the kids about the significance of Elijah, to learn things myself. I’d printed coloring pages of the plagues, and I had the crayons at the ready. But. But I didn’t even go there. I couldn’t get to the next page without a remark, so I wasn’t about to hand out sheets for coloring. And that’s my fault for letting him take over and bulldoze everything. Because what I should do is ignore him. Just because he’s aggressive doesn’t mean I simply throw up my hands. Throwing up your hands is absolutely 100% easier than putting up the fight for what you want. The “easier out” can also become all-out toxic.

Soon you’re left feeling like there’s no room for you in the marriage, that as much as he wants to please you, as much as he genuinely wants to make you happy, he has one fcuked up way of showing it. His way.

The problem is, on the surface, it’s a lovely Seder. People stay for dessert, we laugh and record video clips, repeating the cute things our children said earlier in the night. But when the company is gone and the table is cleared, I walk away feeling defeated and resentful. He’s utilitarian, wants things done efficiently, whereas I want to make memories, to find pleasure in the extra details (Yes, I delight in room-temperature butter for the spreading). He bulldozes through everything on his time, without patience, becoming short-tempered. And it ruins things for me. Because it becomes don’t do it if I can do it faster and better, but damn you for not offering to do it, or trying to do it, better or faster.

Still, I’d rather deal with the arguments and opinions and not getting my way than nothing at all, which surprises me. Why? Because I want my children to share in the Seder, to be a part of tradition. I felt like Lucas was closer to my Grandfather Sam. No longer with us, Grandpa, too, would have gone page by page through Seder and song. And there was Lucas, hanging on my every word. Looking at me from across the table, he was hungry for the stories and wanted to hear them. No one was going hungry. They were already eating matzoh.

“Everyone just wants to eat,” he said, as if I, too, weren’t hungry.

Did I tell Phil that I thought he was being disrespectful, then and there at the table? No. He’d only deny it and further prove my point. No one needs to witness that.

Yes, there were children wiggling in their seats. Tough, I thought. So, go ahead and wiggle. No one gets a lick of matzoh until we get to that blessing. You’ll wait, just as I did when I was your age. And, there it was: the showing of my age. “When I was your age,” is the kiss of the death, or at least the fast approach to it. Because when you go there, it means you’re getting old (at heart). Truly though, I don’t care. That’s the role I’m playing right now, teaching my children about their pasts, and sadly showing them a less-than-ideal future. Something else has to change, and it can’t just be me.

Yes, every single relationship is co-created and it takes two people. And yes, if one person changes, s/he can, in fact, change the dynamic, but eventually you’re beyond exhausted. It is then when you question everything, especially yourself.