Ginger’s Chapter 9

We don’t realize we’ve forgotten Diego’s birthday until he wakes up one morning, looks in the mirror, and quietly notices he’s crossed into his middle ages. No cake, no candles, no celebration — just another day swallowed by angry infants and sad toddlers.

When he tells me, there’s no anger in his voice, just a soft disappointment. And I feel it too. He deserved better than a birthday lost to exhaustion.

But in the middle of all that chaos, something good finally happens.

After weeks of squeezing in practice between feedings and meltdowns, I improve my writing enough to earn my last promotion. The next time I go into work, it becomes official — the top of my career. And the first thing I think isn’t I made it.
It’s I can finally stay home.

I have enough saved to take a long stretch of vacation, long enough to be here with the kids until everyone is older and in school. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to give Mateo the steadiness he’s been craving.

Diego smiles when I tell him — even with the sting of his missed birthday still lingering. He loves the girls deeply, even if he doesn’t get the same one‑on‑one time he had with Mateo. But when one of them curls into his chest, tiny fingers hooked in his shirt, everything else falls away. For a moment, the noise and the chaos and the exhaustion shrink to nothing.

We realize it’s time for the twins to move out of their cribs when both of them start trying to climb over the rails in opposite directions. It’s not safe anymore, and honestly, they’re ready. So we clear a corner of the room, shift furniture around, and start setting up their toddler beds — one pink, one green.

Celeste clings to Diego the whole time, her little fingers curled tight in the fabric of his pants. She doesn’t want to be put down, doesn’t want to explore, doesn’t want anything except to be held. Every time he tries to step away, she lets out this tiny, wounded sound that goes straight to my heart.

Liana, on the other hand, is a charmer from the moment she wakes up. She toddles around the room with that bright, curious smile, babbling at me like she’s giving instructions. When I look at her, she beams. When I laugh, she beams harder. She’s already figured out how to make people fall in love with her.

While we’re working, Mateo wanders in to see what’s going on.

He stops in the doorway, watching quietly as we fuss over the twins’ new beds. His shoulders slump just a little. He doesn’t say anything — he doesn’t have to. I can see it in his eyes.

Another change.  Another moment that isn’t about him.

He stands there for a long time, small and sad, while we take down the cribs and set up the girls’ new space. He just watches, trying to be brave, trying to understand a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

We set the potty chairs up in the hallway right outside the girls’ room, thinking it’ll make things easier. It doesn’t. Potty training turns out to be a whole production — cheering, clapping, wiping, repeating — and both girls demand every ounce of attention we have.

Diego has Celeste, trying to coax her onto the potty. She’s having none of it at first. Her little fingers are curled tight in his shirt, her face buried in his shoulder like the world is ending. It takes time — soft words, gentle rocking, patient coaxing — but he finally manages to get her sitting on the potty, even if she’s still sniffling.

I’ve got Liana, who approaches the whole thing with this bright, determined enthusiasm. She watches every step I make, babbling like she’s repeating the instructions back to me, little hands waving for emphasis. She’s trying so hard to get it right — and every time I smile at her, she beams like she’s just won an award.

In the middle of all this, Mateo wanders off to find himself something to eat. I hear him in the kitchen — the soft thump of cabinet doors, the scrape of a chair he tries to climb, the quiet frustration of a little boy searching for food.

He eventually finds a plate someone left out on the counter. It’s not warm, it’s not fresh, but it’s food, and it’s not green. He sits on the couch and eats quietly, crumbs on his shirt, eyes drifting back toward the hallway like he’s waiting for someone to notice he’s gone.

When he’s done, he toddles back to us.

We’re still in the hallway with the girls — loud, needy, demanding every bit of attention we have left. Neither one has managed to use the potty yet, and we’re trying to keep them focused long enough to understand what they’re supposed to do.

Mateo stops and watches.

At first he’s quiet, just taking it in — the cheering, the fussing, the way our bodies are angled toward the twins and not toward him. Then he cries. A soft, sad little sound that tugs at me, even as my hands are full.

We don’t stop. Not because we don’t hear him — but because the girls are seconds away from giving up, and we’re trying so hard to get them through this first attempt.

He cries again, louder this time, the kind of cry that means I need you. And still, we’re caught in the moment, trying to keep the girls from slipping off the edge of their patience.

He stays right where he is, tears on his cheeks, watching us like he’s trying to understand how he got pushed to the edges of his own family.

And then I see it — that tiny spark of toddler calculation. He’s mastered communication now, reached level three in everything else. He knows exactly how this house works. He knows what gets a reaction.

So he stands there, in full view of all of us, and very deliberately… uses his diaper.

A moment later he stiffens, cheeks pink, eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and hope. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. The smell hits first, then the look on his face — that quiet, desperate see me.

Diego sighs, but it’s soft, not angry. Celeste has finally used the potty, so she toddles off looking for food, and Diego kneels to change Mateo’s diaper. For a moment, Mateo is smiling — small, relieved — because he finally has the attention he’s been aching for.

After Diego changes Mateo and gets him cleaned up, he gives me a quick kiss, squeezes my shoulder, and heads out the door for work. Mateo watches him go, still a little flushed from the attention he finally got, still holding onto that tiny glow of being seen.

And then it’s just me. Me and three toddlers. In a hallway full of potty chairs.

For a moment, they’re all smiling up at me — three bright little faces, hopeful and calm — and I let myself believe it might stay that way.

It doesn’t.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind Diego, the girls start squirming again. I’m trying to get them to a point where they can use the potty without being physically placed on it every time, but I can only work with one at a time. So I set one girl on the potty and have the other watch, hoping she’ll pick up the idea just by seeing it done.

Liana approaches it with bright, determined enthusiasm — watching every move I make, babbling like she’s repeating the steps back to me. Celeste, meanwhile, looks like she’s being asked to climb a mountain. And I’m somewhere in the middle, trying to keep the whole operation from unraveling.

Mateo watches me and the girls. He’s three now — old enough to want an audience, old enough to understand what it means to be “the big kid.” And after the morning he’s had, after feeling invisible and then suddenly very seen, he’s riding this strange mix of insecurity and pride.

He watches me help Liana settle herself, then watches Celeste try — and fail — to copy her. His little shoulders square. His chin lifts. There’s a spark in his eyes I recognize instantly.

He steps forward and climbs onto the other potty with all the confidence in the world. He doesn’t need help. He doesn’t need cheering. He doesn’t even need to go — not really. He’s just showing off.

His expression is pure toddler satisfaction — a tiny, smug little smile that says:

See? I can do this. I’m older. I can do things you can’t.

But the girls don’t even notice. Liana is watching Celeste. Celeste is watching me. And I’m trying to keep Celeste on the potty long enough for her to understand what she’s supposed to do.

No one reacts to Mateo’s big moment.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Because in his mind, he’s just proven something important — something only he understands.

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