Kinky parents

So I got this email the other day that was truly trollerific.  But it wasn’t even the entertaining kind of trolling that I can post and publicly make fun of.  It was just all a drag.

But he did ask one question and bring up one point that was valid:

Hasnt becoming a parent changed who you are as a Dominatrix?  How can you claim to be in a 24/7 relationship unless your committing child abuse?  So your either a liar or a child abuser.

M’kay, so first of all, *you’re.

Secondly, stop saying “Dominatrix.”  I’m a Dominant.  Yes, I know they’re still technically the same thing, but the mental image conjured by each word is different.

It’s like the difference between “panties” and “underwear.”  They describe the same thing, but the mental image is very different.

And thirdly (and I know I’ve mentioned this before), BDSM is a kink.  It encompasses all the insanely fun and depraved things I love doing to my boys.

I know no one who reads this thinks I’m kinky 24/7.  My sex drive is high, but it’s not that high.

On the other hand, D/s refers specifically to a relationship dynamic.  Meaning it pertains exclusively to the way partners relate to one another and interact with one another within the strictures of their relationship.

In my relationships, I am in charge.  That doesn’t change when my kid is around.  It doesn’t change when the in-laws or friends are around.  It’s not a role I play or a costume I wear, it’s literally who I am and how I relate to people.

And it’s not abnormal in the slightest, just by the way.  Women having power within a relationship is not a new or strange thing.

In my mom’s southern family, the wife is always in charge, and when Grandma speaks, everyone shuts up and listens.

And especially in the Mexican side of my family, no one ever fucks with the matriarch. You never want a Latina bitch mad at you, m’kay.  And when you’re married to one, and you live with her and she knows where you sleep, you do what the fuck you’re told.

I’ve spent enough time with my Mexican cousins.  They never discipline their kids (like, at all), but they damn sure have their husbands well-trained.

The point is that having an unbalanced power dynamic in a relationship is not “new” or “kinky.”  It’s completely mainstream for the woman in any given relationship to have more power within the relationship itself.  My relationships just take that to a slightly higher level.

But there’s this habit a lot of people not in D/s relationships tend to do, and that’s to assume that real life is the same as the Femdom porn videos you see online.

Like, do you honestly think I’m just having nonstop orgies in front of my kid, and that’s all there is to a FemDom relationship?

Uh, no.  It’s a relationship.  It, like all relationships, requires work.  Compromise.  Give and take.  Honest, open communication.

There are bills to pay.  Errands to run.  Groceries to buy.  A house to maintain.  Sometimes shit happens that interferes with my kink life.

Reality is not a porno, y’all.  I don’t make Kazander strip down to his panties and stay on all fours as soon as he gets home from work.  I don’t do anything kinky in front of my kid.

Because she’s six.

And even if she was old enough to mentally handle something like that, just ew.  I can’t think of anything more uncomfortable than my daughter being that knowledgeable about my sex life.

What I do with her father, behind closed doors, is none of anyone’s business, including hers.

But my relationship dynamic?  I don’t hide that, because there’s nothing to hide.  She knows Mommy is the one in charge.  She knows Mommy is the one who makes the decisions, and she knows not to fuck with Mommy.

She also knows that I treat Kazander with respect, and I listen when he speaks.  She knows that love and happiness are not things you have, but things you do.  It takes work.

To reproduce or not to reproduce

Jen,

Long time reader, first time writer.  I really love your blog and how matter of fact you are with everything, it’s so refreshingly honest.

I’m 28, my husband is 26, and we’ve been married for about three years and both of our parents have been pressuring us to have kids.  Aside from the fact that we’re two gay men and that process is a bit more involved than with a straight couple, there are a number of things that make us hesitate to go through with it.  Most notably, and maybe most selfishly, we like our life.  We like having time to ourselves.  We like being able to do things on our own schedule.  Most of our friends have kids and it’s all “I need to check with my sitter” and “I need to get back and relieve the sitter” and “I have a soccer game that day.”

And that’s not to mention the kink aspect.  I’m mostly submissive to my husband and one of the things I love is the spontenaity.  I could literally be sitting on the bed folding laundry and he’ll walk in, grab me by my hair, and just start fucking my face, just without a word.  Or I could be putting dishes away and he’ll walk in, bend me over the counter, and just start fucking me.  It’s one of my favorite things about our sex life.

You’ve talked about having a kid and how it has impacted your kink life.  I’m really just looking for an honest, matter of fact answer because everywhere I look all I see is stuff about how kids are the most amazing thing ever and “Oh I wasn’t complete until I had kids” and “You haven’t lived until you’ve had kids” and honestly, it’s all just overwhelming.

I need someone who can be honest with me, who can tell me the good and bad, and can tell me if it’s worth it.  I need someone who can tell me what life as a kinky parent is like without all the ooh-ing and ahh-ing that everyone does.

Please, anything would help.  And thank you so much.

Will

Will, dear, I actually take quite a bit of pride in saying this: You’ve come to exactly the right place.

And before I get into all this, I do want to do the obligatory I-love-my-kid thing.  In my specific case, yes, I think it’s worth it.  It comes with some pretty major fucking caveats, and some massive fucking disadvantages, but at the end of the day, I’m glad my kid is here, and if I could go back 7 years and do it again, knowing all the disadvantages and bullshit that goes along with parenthood, I’d still do it exactly the same way.

But what’s right for me may not be right for you.  And the only one who can make that decision is you.

Yes, having a kid will have a massive impact on your life, including (and perhaps especially) your kink life.  That spontaneity will all but disappear.

I mean, it won’t disappear completely.  You’ll learn, and your husband will learn, to be more opportunistic.  The kid is taking a nap.  Cool, come ride my cock.  Quickies in the bedroom while the kid is watching Barney, a quick blowjob in the shower in the morning before waking the kid up, a hurried, frenzied fucking before work while you’re making the coffee, I mean, there are ways around it.

But nothing really prepares you for that kind of loss of freedom.  Even when I was pregnant, I could still go where I wanted, when I wanted, and do what I wanted.  I could get up and go to the grocery store.  I could go out to dinner.  I could go to munches and play parties and doctor appointments and whateverthefuck I wanted.  I mean, I had limitations placed on me because of the complications with my pregnancy, but you get the general gist of it.

I had no damn idea.  And that was the first big revelation I had about my new reality as a parent.

Once she was born, even things like running out to get a quick lunch at a drive thru became an event.  It took planning.  Forethought.  And going out to dinner?  Yeah, that wasn’t something we could decide to do on a whim.  At 5:30pm, I couldn’t turn to my husband and say, “I don’t feel like cooking.  Let’s go out instead.”  We had to make arrangements.  Plans.  All the shit your friends say about sitters?  I’ve said those exact words so many times, it’s comical.

And let me just tell you right now: babies fucking suck.  I mean, you’ll either be adopting or using a surrogate, so there are some things (like breast-feeding vs formula, and then breast-feeding in public) you won’t have to worry about, but that doesn’t mean you get a free pass.  Midnight feedings, lack of sleep, exhaustion, frustration, resentment of the baby and/or each other, I mean, it’s fucking brutal.

Neither of you will be feeling very horny those first few months.  Newborns are the worst kind of baby.  They suck the hardest.  Every spare moment you get, all you’ll want to do is sleep.  Luckily, that part only lasts a few months, and then things start getting easier.

I love my kid, okay, and I loved her when she was a baby.  But I can also be completely honest.  There’s not a whole hell of a lot about the first six months of her life that I can look back on as a positive memory.  I mean, her first smile was awesome, her first laugh was amazing, watching her personality develop was fantastic, and really helped me bond with her.

That’s one thing you might actually be spared from, I’m not entirely sure.  Unfortunately, I don’t know many gay men who have kids, so I don’t know.  But for me, and many mothers, there’s this assumption and expectation that you’re supposed to be completely, 100% in love with your kid from the moment it leaves your body.  I don’t know if you’ll experience that expectation, but I imagine you’ll get at least a portion of it.  If you go through a surrogate, you’ll likely be expected to love it just as much as a biological mother would, from the moment it’s born, and if you go through adoption, you’ll likely be expected to love it just as much as a biological parent would, from the moment you sign the papers.

Either way, I’m going to do you a favor right now, and tell you that it’s completely bullshit.  I mean, I know even less about adoption than I do about surrogacy, so I’m just going to write the rest of this assuming that you decide to go through a surrogate.  I’m also going to write it from the perspective of a biological mother, since that’s the only perspective I can speak on with any degree of authority.  Obviously there will be things that are different with adoption, and with you being fathers, but I imagine the gist is about the same.

But there’s this expectation that you’re supposed to be completely in love with the kid from the jump.  And for some people, I guess that’s what happens.

It sure as hell didn’t happen for me.

I mean, I wasn’t completely indifferent to her, it wasn’t like that.  I’d been waiting for her for 9 months.  I’d been feeling her growing and moving around (and kicking the shit out of me, consider yourself lucky you don’t have to deal with that).

The point is, some people fall in love with their kids right away, and some don’t.  I didn’t.  Hell, I didn’t know her.

And then of course there was the guilt, because I didn’t fall in love with her instantly, that I must be a terrible mother, and then all the baggage with my own mother made its way to the forefront of my hormone-crazed mind, and what was I thinking, and what have I done, and how badly am I going to fuck up this poor kid?

Now I know it’s all bullshit.  You may not feel anything for the kid right away, and that’s fine.  I personally was reassured when the IV they had in her leg (she had to stay in the NICU for a week) started causing her pain.  I saw it, I recognized the IV burn, and I told the nurses.  Who promptly ignored me.

And then the mama bear instincts kicked in, and I went on a rampage until her next scheduled dose of antibiotics, where they realized, “Hey, it’s an IV burn,” and moved the IV.

She still has a scar from it, by the way.  Almost 6 years later.

So that was reassuring for me, because even though I didn’t really love her the way people say a mother is supposed to love her newborn, she was still mine, and I would do whatever it took to protect her.

So that’s something I tell new mothers, and it’s something I’ll tell you, too.  You may not be completely smitten with your kid right away, and that’s fine.  You don’t have to be.  You don’t know anything about the kid.  It’s a complete stranger.  It’s fine.  Because if something happens, if the kid needs you to protect it, those instincts will kick in and you’ll do what it takes without a second thought.  It’ll just come naturally.  Whether you’re a mother or father, whether the kid is biologically yours or not.

Because even though you didn’t carry it, and even if you don’t share a biological connection, you know that’s your kid, and if it needs you, it’ll flip the same switch in your brain that it flipped in mine.

We carry so much guilt as parents, because we put having kids up on this pedestal, and it’s all just stupid.  I’m glad I had my kid, I think she’s worth all the bullshit that comes with reproducing, but I can admit that there are parts of parenthood that just suck.

But while I didn’t feel that connection to her immediately, and I resented her more often than not, I did enjoy watching her learn, watching her personality develop, and that’s where we really started bonding.  That was really special, and for me, that’s the one thing that made all the other hell worthwhile.

Once they leave the baby stage, it’s easier.  And now, she’s almost 6, and she can do things independently, she does chores, she can hold conversations and she’s actually really into politics, interestingly enough.  I mean, it’s all got to be watered down, she’s fucking five, so there’s a lot that goes over her head.  But she does not like Trump.  Which is an opinion she formed on her own, independent of my thoughts or Kazander’s thoughts of the man.  I mean, she knew he was the president, and she’d seen a couple of interviews and speeches from Obama (most notably his Thanksgiving speeches, with all the dad jokes), but that was about all she knew.

It started when we were in NC, in the hospital room with my mom, who was watching a press interview with Trump.  I didn’t think she was paying attention, I was too appalled and disgusted to notice that she was actually watching, until she said, “Mommy, he’s mean.”

I said, “Yes, baby, he sure is.”

“I don’t like him,” she declared.  “You’re not supposed to be mean to people.  Especially if you’re the president.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“I miss the old president.  He was nice.”

“I miss him too, baby.”

So she, quite proud of her new opinion of the president, started telling everyone she met.  Which was fucking adorable, okay.

The problem is that a small town in North Carolina is probably not the best place to voice that particular opinion.  Reactions ranged from awkward silence to dismissal to feigned cheerfulness.  And she picked up on that, and started to doubt herself, so a few days later, she said, “Well, I like him a little bit.”

“What?  Why?”

“Well, he’s the president.  You’re supposed to like the president a little bit.”

“No the fuck you’re not,” I corrected.  “You’re supposed to respect him a little bit.  There’s a big difference.  You don’t have to like him at all.”

“You don’t?”

“Not even a little bit.  I don’t like him, either.  And neither does Daddy.  You absolutely do not have to like him, and you don’t have to support him or stick up for him.  He’s a cruel man, and I will never like a cruel man, even if I have to respect him, or even if other people like him, or even if I feel like I’m supposed to like him.  If you want to like him, that’s your choice.  But there has to be something more to like about him than him just being the president.”

That made her feel better.

So I mean, it’s fun now.  She can have these kinds of conversations, she can develop opinions of her own.  She says she wants Michelle Obama to be the next president, and she was quite irritated when she found out that she won’t be allowed to vote in 2020.

Seeing the world through the eyes of a little kid is pretty fucking awesome, too.  You kind of realize how jaded and cynical you are, and it’s so refreshing to sort of let go of that for a little while, and look at the world completely differently.

But there is one thing I’m noticing here, in reading your email.  And I mean, forgive me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you don’t even really want to have kids.

So if that’s the case, I’ll do you a favor now, and tell you this:

You do not have to have kids.  At all.  Ever.  Like, literally ever.

I know exactly that attitude you’re talking about, and I despise it.  Every time someone said that bullshit to me, about how I’m “not complete” until I’m a mother, I wanted to hit them in the face with a chair.

Uh, no.  I was not an incomplete human being before my spawn was born, m’kay.  I am more than just a baby-making machine.  That is just as true for you and your husband, even though neither of you will actually be carrying the baby.  You are two whole, complete, autonomous people.  You do not have to reproduce in order to be human.  You are more than a series of chemicals and DNA that must be passed down to another generation.

That being said, I’m my father’s oldest child, and he came from a very old-fashioned Mexican family.  Legacy was and is a big deal.  He could trace his roots back a dozen generations.  He instilled in me the spirit of our family, and that as his eldest child, it’s my job to carry that on.  I mean, shit went a little sideways, so that fell off a bit, but the attitude is still there.

The point is, having been brought up like that, I mean, family was everything, legacy was everything.  So yeah, I felt obligated to carry that on in a way my little sister and my cousins never really understood.

Because I’m the oldest child of my grandparents’ oldest child.  In an old-school Mexican family.  Yeah dude, I was told basically from birth that it was my job to carry on the family line, and have lots of babies.  I have male cousins to carry on the name, but it was my job to carry the legacy.

So that was great.

But there’s this pressure to reproduce, this idea that reproducing is the end-all, be-all of existence, and that’s all just utter bullshit.

“Oh, you haven’t lived until you’ve had a child.”

“Your life isn’t complete until you’ve had a child.”

“I didn’t know what love was until I had my child.  You have no idea what real love feels like until you have a child.  Your life is just empty.”

Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up.

I mean, honestly, how much does your life has to suck to think that you were incomplete before you had a kid?

I kinda liked my life before the kid was born.

Sure I like who I am as a mom, I’m damn good at being a mom, it’s a role I take a great deal of pride in, but I also liked who I was before my kid was born.

And some of the bullshit was ridiculous.  I remember, early in my pregnancy, before I even started showing, I wore a T-shirt that had Cartman on it, from South Park.  My mom saw it and said, “You know you’re not going to be able to wear that once the baby is born.”

Um, what?

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, that show isn’t really appropriate for kids.  And you won’t be able to curse, either.  You have to change a lot when you have kids.”

Yeah, fuck everyfuckingthing about that.

I’m not going to stop being who I am just because I made a person, m’kay.  I don’t lose who I am, I don’t become reduced to nothing but my spawn’s mother.  I still curse, I still watch South Park, I still drink, I still party and have fun, I still am who I am.

And my kid understands that some words I say are “grown up words,” and she will be able to say them when she’s a grown up.

Which works.  She just doesn’t curse.  Even though I curse all the time around her, and even when I’m talking to her.  I talk to her the same way I talk to anyone else.  I don’t pretend to be something I’m not around her, and I’m not going to change who I am as a person because she exists.

I haven’t changed who I am, I just added “Mom” to it.

And I’m still not a kid person.  I still hate other people’s kids.  I love my kid to death, I think she’s fucking awesome, and I get compliments on her behavior all the time, because I believe in discipline, goddammit, and I’m not going to raise an obnoxious heathen who cannot sit quietly in a waiting room, or who annoys the hell out of people on an airplane, or who screams and throws tantrums in a grocery store, or who whines and throws shit in restaurants.

So I love my kid, but I am not and will never be a “kid person.”

You don’t have to change who you are when you have a kid, because there is nothing “missing” without them.  I mean, if you want kids, and you honestly do feel like something is missing without them, then cool.  But not everyone feels that way.  I didn’t feel that way.

There’s nothing wrong with not having kids, if you don’t want to have kids.  You sound like you’re happy with your life, like you enjoy the life you and your husband share.  If you don’t want to change it, then don’t.

You like having free time and disposable income?  Feel like giving it up for the next 18 years?

Right now, you can literally be driving in the car with your husband, and you may drive past a new restaurant that just opened up.  And you can turn to your husband and say, “Hey, that place looks nice.  We should check it out.  We can go literally any time we want to.”

Giving all that shit up is not something you should do on a whim, or because your families tell you that you should, or because you feel like that’s what people are supposed to do when they’ve been married for a while.

If your families are pressuring you to have kids, tell them to fuck off.  I got it when my kid was about 2, and everyfuckingbody and their damn dog suddenly were all like, “Well, it’s time for a sibling!  You’re going to give her a little brother or sister, right?  Isn’t it time to get started on that?”

“Uh, no.”

“What?  She needs a sibling!”

“She really doesn’t, actually.”

“Kids are always happier with siblings.”

“They are?  Well shit, I never got that memo.”

“They’ve done studies.  You need to give her a little sibling.  It’s better for her developmentally.  Besides, you’re not really a parent until you have more than one.”

“Oh wow, I’m not?  I never knew that.  Well fuck, and I’ve spent the last two years raising this thing for no reason, then.”

Holy fucking shit, dude.  And no, none of that is even remotely an exaggeration.  I literally did have people try to guilt me into reproducing again, and I literally had people tell me I’m not a real parent because I only have one.

Just ignore them, or tell them to fuck off.  They’ll shut up eventually.  After about a year of those kinds of conversations, I started getting less and less tactful.  They stopped after awhile.  I haven’t heard any of that bullshit for… shit, probably 2 years, now?  Something like that.

Don’t let people pressure you into having a kid if you don’t want one.  You don’t have to have kids.

I mean, I can’t tell you whether you should or shouldn’t.  That’s not a decision anyone can make except you and your husband.  And for me, yeah, it worked out, and I love it, and I think my kid is one of the coolest people on the planet, and she’s more than worth all the disadvantages and all the limits it places on my time and my kink life.

For me, yeah it’s worth it.

Is it worth it for you and your husband?  That’s not something I can answer.

So I don’t need caffeine anymore

So did you know that Hal Sparks is in a kids’ show now?

Because I didn’t know he was in a kids’ show now.

Which is why it was funny to walk in to see my 5-year-old watching TV and hearing Hal Sparks’ voice.

Why is that funny?  Because, while he’s done other stuff, to me he will always be Michael from Queer as Folk.

You know Queer as Folk, right?

It’s the show about a group of gay men (and women) that features such wholesome themes as teenage prostitution, huge amounts of homophobia and homophobic slurs, brutal hate crimes, unbelievably high amounts of unprotected sex with strangers, illegal drug use, overdosing on illegal drugs, a 30-year-old having sex with a minor, gangbangs of a man who is high on drugs and passed out… not to mention the fact that it’s practically softcore porn.

It is the literal opposite of family friendly.

I’ve seen every episode of the show like 6 times.  Seriously one of the best shows ever made.

Brian Kinney was my first love.  And to this day, there does not exist another character (or real person) that is more like me.

We have so much in common.  We’re both hot, we both have a robust and healthy self appreciation, we both have a robust and healthy sex drive, we both drive really, really fast, we’re both heartless assholes, and we both find it incredibly hot to see men on their knees (or, you know, bent over).

The differences are that I also find it hot when women are on their knees (or bent over), I’m more manipulative than he is, and I’m tougher than he is.

That, and he has a penis.

Oh and his cancer was testicular.

No apologies.  No excuses.  No regrets.

I remember always looking forward to watching the show every week when I was a teenager.  It came out when I was 14, and I watched every episode without fail.  Thank God my parents never paid attention to me.  It was two years before they realized what I was watching, and when my mom tried to tell me I couldn’t watch it anymore, she knew just as well as I did that she was wasting her breath (by 16, my parents and I weren’t great friends).

The point is that, while I adore the show, I was not totally in love with the idea of my 5-year-old watching it (it’s on Netflix, which she knows how to get into, so while it’s unlikely, it is possible for her to turn the show on if she gets in my account instead of hers).  Also, I know everything she watches when she’s at my house (my inlaws do not share my desire to be aware of what the kindergartner watches.  Which I discovered when she quoted Fry from Futurama to me.  That was a fun day).  So when I walked in and heard Hal Sparks, it got my attention.  He wasn’t on any show that I knew she watched.

But the worst part wasn’t hearing his voice.  Sure, that’s what got my attention, but it wasn’t his voice that started my mini heart attack.

It was the words he was saying.  Which, in that moment, sounded awholefuckinglot like the QAF scene in which Michael is arguing with his boyfriend, Ben, after the teenage prostitute living with them was caught bringing his johns into their home.

Not exactly suitable for my kid.  And naturally, I freaked the fuck out, ran around to the front of the TV, and reached for the remote before registering that it was a kids’ show, and I guess the kids on the show had a garage sale or something without telling Sparks’ character, and sold some stuff in his house, and something about someone taking a nap in his bed.

I don’t know, I stopped paying attention when I realized my kid wasn’t about to watch Ted “strongly urge” Emmett to continue pleasuring him after Emmett said he was done, or Michael telling Ben (who is HIV positive) to keep going when the condom breaks, or Justin giving Brian a blowjob in an alley, then spitting the cum on a poster of an asshole politician, or Brian almost dying from an attempt at autoerotic asphyxiation, or Justin’s dad ramming Brian’s car, totaling it, or kicking the shit out of him, or Ted overdosing on drugs that a stranger gave him after bringing the stranger to his house, or Justin being bashed in the head with a baseball bat.

But I certainly didn’t need any more coffee.  I was completely awake.

And I learned that Hal Sparks is in a kids’ show.

How’s my week going?

screenshot_20170216-165509

That about sums it up.

It’s great.  Things are great.

Actually, things are better and worse than I expected.  My sister was just too overwhelmed to function, so she left on Monday, after I got there, to go back to Asheville, with the promise that she’d be back today.

Which was fine by me.  Her inability to function as an adult would’ve only gotten in my way.  Having her gone cleared a lot of stuff up for me.

All the thousands of issues she just couldn’t handle on her own?  Yeah 90% of that was smoothed out within the first few hours I was at the hospital.  Most of it, I probably could’ve done from Vegas, if I’d been given an accurate account of what was going on.

So that’s great.

My mom’s still a fucking idiot.  Her pain is out of control, so learning how to manage it, without morphine, is a priority.  Since she won’t have access to it when she’s discharged to her rehab facility.  But they only give her any kind of medication when she asks for it, and they have repeatedly told her she needs to not wait until it’s agonizing before she asks for it.  And she repeatedly waits until it’s agonizing before asking for it.

When I’m there, I have to remind her to ask for it.  When I don’t, then she doesn’t ask.

And that sums up, in a nutshell, what it’s like trying to get her to manage her illness.  The pain pills are just one of many things she could be doing that would make her life a hundred times more comfortable.

But then she wouldn’t be the center of attention.

She needs a constant fucking babysitter for every fucking thing.  I keep reminding her that I’m leaving on Monday.  I won’t be here to make her do shit.  I won’t be here to remind her to do shit.

And she says she understands.  And then she does the exact thing she’s not supposed to do.

Her health sucks, by the way.  I highly doubt she’s going to be around much longer.  I honestly don’t care, I’m just trying to get her to a point where she can manage her pain and manage her illness without me holding her hand and reminding her of every single tiny thing.  Even when I write shit down for her, it doesn’t matter.  She just doesn’t do it.

I’m not staying here indefinitely.  I’m not going to drop my entire life to babysit her for the rest of hers.

And then, my sister.

Who was supposed to be back today.  We need to go to my mom’s house to pack up a bunch of her shit for her to take to the rehab facility.  And we need to sit down with my uncles and figure out a plan for the longterm (since I’m not going to be here to walk them all through it, which they apparently don’t believe or don’t want to acknowledge).

She decided she’s not coming back until Saturday (I’m leaving Monday morning, by the way).  And she decided not to tell us about this decision.

So at 4 o’clock this afternoon, my mom finally called, to ask if she was almost here.  And that’s when she saw fit to let us know she wouldn’t be back.

Oh but I had to drop my entire goddamn life and fly across the country rightfuckingnow.

I could’ve been at a hotel with star tonight.  That’s where I should be.  That’s where I want to be.

Instead, I’m babysitting two infantile adults who can’t handle the smallest fucking things on their own.

I could’ve been spending time with a sexy slut, doing amazing things to her.

Instead I’m holding the hands of two adults who I’m increasingly convinced are legitimately mentally handicapped.

It’s great.  Things are great.

This is just not my week.

Okay, so we found out on Wednesday that my mom has stage 3 ovarian cancer.  And that’s about the gist of all we know, because my relatives are fucking morons, but I’ll get to that.

The plan was that they were going to send her to an assisted living home so she can get strong enough for surgery (she also has Multiple Sclerosis, which I just found out today apparently throws a big fucking wrench into the whole cancer treatment thing), and they’d remove her ovaries, then do chemo to make sure they got it all.

I had a shit ton of questions, but when I talked to my mom on Wednesday she had no answers.  So I gave her a list of questions to ask and told her to keep me posted.

And that was the last I heard from either my mom or my sister, until today.  My sister called me, bawling hysterically, because she’s overwhelmed and she’s just feeling too much pressure and people keep asking her questions and my mom is freaking out and my uncles are calling her nonstop and she doesn’t know anything and it’s all too much and she just can’t handle it and can I please come out, please, and handle it?

Fuck.  “Let me call Kazander.  I’ll see what we can do.”

“Well, could you come in time for her first chemo treatment?”

“I’m sure I will.  It’s going to take time for her to get her strength up for the surgery.”

“Her first treatment is on Monday.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, Monday.”

Pause.  “You can’t be serious.”

“That’s what they told us.”

And you didn’t fucking think to ask why?

“Please, Jen, can you get here?”

“It’s fucking Saturday.”

“I know.”

“I’m in Vegas.”

“Please, just please?”

Jesus.

When did they decide to change the plan?”

“I don’t know.”

Why are they doing chemo first?  Is she worse than they thought?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well what were the results of her tests?  If she’s not strong enough for surgery, chances are she’s not strong enough for chemo.  That’s not a decision they would’ve come to lightly.”

“I don’t know, we never saw the results.”

“So you’re saying you literally know nothing about it?  No prognosis, no plan for treatment, nothing?  You’ve both been there for three days and you don’t know a goddamn thing?  How is that possible?”

“I’m sorry, don’t yell at me!  I just don’t know what to do.”

And then she started sobbing for like five minutes straight, and I couldn’t understand a damn word she said until she calmed down.

Alright, I thought to myself, trying to be very gentle with her.  This isn’t good.  Something changed, something’s wrong.  I need to find out what happened to change the plan.

But first, deal with my sister.  Baby steps.

“Has anyone gone over the stuff she needs to know before the treatment?  Has anyone explained anything?”

“No doctor has come by to talk to us.  I just don’t know.  I can’t do it, Jen.  I’m so overwhelmed.  Please, come here.”

And of course, she’s still crying, and I can hear my mom crying in the background.

God mother fucking dammit.

“Let me see what I can do.  I’ll call you back.”

“Thank you, Jen!”

“I make no promises.  Tell me you understand that.”

“I know, just please, please come here.  We already lost Dad.”

Yeah, like two years ago.

“I can’t lose Mom, too.  Please come here.  I can’t do this.”

Motherfucking hell.

Keep in mind, I’m still fighting a cold (yeah, me having a cold around a chemo patient is a fantastic fucking idea.  Let’s do that), and still dealing with a breakup.

This is less than ideal.

So I called Kazander, told him what was going on.  After looking at a random flight on his phone, we quickly determined that we didn’t have the money to fly me and my kid out there that quick.  Maybe it was possible if it was just me, and we could get a sitter for the kid.

Which I would’ve greatly preferred.  But no such luck with my family, and I was still waiting for an answer from a friend.

So I called my sister back, and asked if my mom could cover it, and of course my sister didn’t know, and was too overwhelmed to figure it out (even though she’s becoming my mom’s power of attorney.  Yeah, that’ll go well) and my mom was still crying, and my uncle had called to say goodnight, and asked my sister if she was going to be staying there with my mom, which – and dude, I’m not making this shit up – was enough to overwhelm her all over again, and Jen, this is just too much, and God fucking dammit, could they be any more pathetic?  I mean, if they really tried?

Fine.  I’ll figure some motherfucking thing out.

Keep in mind this is like 5pm, okay.  Saturday is almost over.

So I called Kazander again (who was out with friends).

“Look, I’ve got to find a way to make this happen.  Do we have any options?”

He sighed.  “Let me call my dad.”

Meanwhile, I had told star on Thursday about my mom’s diagnosis.  She immediately asked if I wanted to fly out to see her, and offered to get me out there, that she had miles I could use.  I thanked her, and told her that it was just too early, we didn’t know anything yet, and I just didn’t know.

I don’t like my mom or my sister.  I didn’t want to fly out there unless I had to.

And now, apparently, I had to.  By fucking Monday morning.

God fucking dammit.

And to make matters worse, star and I had plans to hang out on Thursday, that, on top of asking her for this massive fucking favor, I now had to cancel.

So I texted star, asking her if the offer was still on the table, and asking if it was possible to make it happen tonight or tomorrow.  Meanwhile, Kazander was on the phone with his parents, sister, and uncle, moving things around different bank accounts, figuring out how they could make it work.

And then my friend texted me back.  No, I don’t have a sitter.  I’m going to have to take a 5-year-old to the oncology ward of a hospital.

By Monday.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

So I texted star.

“Oh fuck, nevermind.  I just found out I don’t have a sitter.  I have to take my kid with me.”

And y’all have to understand something about me.  When I’m under pressure, I get into this ultra-cold, radioactive, psycho-bitch mode.  No emotions, no feelings, not even really any compassion.  One-track mind.  Handle what needs to be fucking handled.  Cry about it later, once it’s taken care of.

And I’m serious, I’m mean.  It’s not going to be pretty.  But I’m not staying out in North Carolina for fucking months, okay.  I’ve got a lot of really unpleasant shit I need to do, and not a lot of time to do it.  I don’t care if it hurts your goddamn feelings.

If the building you’re standing in starts crumbling around you, are you going to stand there and cry because the security guard or whatever yelled at you to run to the exit?  Or are you going to get the fuck out of the building first, and then cry?

That’s my mindset.  That’s my focus.  That’s my priority.  Handle the unpleasant shit first.  Emotions later.  Get shit started.  Streamline the process.  Put everyone in their place.  Give my sister time to breathe.  Then, once it’s stable enough that she can take over, go back home.

Plan.  Priorities.  Control.  Efficiency.  Get it done.

And star came closer than anyone ever has to completely shattering that focus, with five little words.

Ok, so two flights out…

Jesus Christ, that’s too much.

She insisted, and right around then was when I got a text from my sister in law, saying that she couldn’t pay back the money she owed us yet, and I still hadn’t heard back from Kazander, and it was now 5:45 in the evening, and I was juggling three text conversations with being on the phone with my mom’s nurses, trying to figure out what she needed to do tomorrow to prepare for her chemo, because it just wasn’t working trying to explain it to my mom and sister, and yes there is something wrong, but the nurses aren’t allowed to discuss it, I’ll have to talk to the doctor, and I was quickly running out of time and options.

I accepted star’s offer, gave her the info she needed, and she got us a flight that’ll land in North Carolina just after midnight on Monday morning.

In time for my mom’s chemo appointment.

And honestly, for a moment I just needed to sit down.  That was the biggest thing, whether I could get there, and star got me there.

Everything else could wait five minutes.

So I called the hospital, again.  I found out when the doctor would be there in the morning and arranged for him to call me, so I can get her prognosis and treatment information, and find out what the hell happened.

Then I had to figure out what the hell I was going to do about the kid’s school.  I got some things together, and decided that the stuff I couldn’t easily transport, she’ll just have to catch up on when we get home (yet another reason why I won’t be staying there long).  I’ll get her ahead in a couple of her other classes so she won’t be overwhelmed.

So I’m prepared, I have a plan, I have concrete steps that I can take to make measurable forward progress.  I’m good.

And I’m fucking pissed.

Because my mom, while psychotic, is a grown ass woman.  My sister is 29 goddamn years old.  She’s a grown ass woman.  And my mom has made it clear which one of her daughters she prefers taking care of her (which is totally fine by me, by the way.  I don’t want to deal with the bitch any more than I have to).

These are fucking adults, okay?  Grownups.  But they can’t handle stress for shit.

And I’m pissed because I’m always the bad fucking daughter, and I’m selfish, and cold, and insensitive, and just fuck me.  I’m the one who destroyed our family, I’m the one no one wants to acknowledge.

Until shit goes wrong.  Shit goes wrong, and suddenly I stop being the bad fucking daughter and become the motherfucking Messiah because they need help and can’t function under any kind of stress whatsoever.

And now I have to drop my whole life and fuck with my daughter’s education and go out there to handle the shit they can’t, because as much as I hate them, I just can’t bring myself to abandon them.  Not now, not to this.

Because at the end of the day, it wouldn’t have mattered if I couldn’t afford a flight or if the flights were sold out or if star hadn’t been able to help me.  All that would’ve mattered is that I wasn’t there.  I didn’t show up.

And I’m a monster, yes, but I’m not going to let myself become the monster they make me out to be.

They need the big bad wolf, and the big bad wolf will be there.

So yay, Jen swoops in with her cape and tattoos to be the badass superhero and save the day.

Today.

Tomorrow, she goes back to being the one no one cares about.

“Have a kid,” they said.

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They motherfuckin’ lied.

Out their ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kid.  If I could do it all over again, I’d do it exactly the same way and all that trite bullshit.  She’s pretty damn awesome, if I do say so myself.  I’m kind of proud of myself for making such an awesome kid.

Brag moment (because I’m a parent and this is my blog and I can write about whateverthefuck I want to write about, even if it’s about my kid):

My daughter is in kindergarten, and smart as all hell.  No I’m serious, I know all parents want to think their kids are exceptional in every category.  But I’m not one of those parents.  There are certain things my kid just fucking sucks at.  She’s so damned sensitive and thin-skinned, and she just shuts down if she’s under stress (which I’m hoping is mostly just because she’s five and living a privileged life, and she’ll grow out of it).

Academia happens to be one of her strengths.  According to her most recent testing, she’s a full year ahead in reading and a year and a half ahead in math.  Kid is fragile as fuck, but it’s fine, she’ll be able to wipe her tears with hundred dollar bills when she’s an adult and an astrophysicist or some shit.

I went out and bought some second grade math books to do with her after her regular school lessons, and she’s flying through most those with relative ease.  And I’m having to do it because the pussies who run the homeschool program don’t want to bump her up to an appropriate level for fear of “challenging her too much.”

Oh, you mean shit in her life might actually be hard at some point?  The unmitigated horror!

We have to protect the children and give them participation trophies and create a completely unrealistic view of how the world works, and then bitch and complain when they grow up and are not sufficiently equipped to deal with shit.

Sigh

Whatever.  It’s fine.  I’m done fighting that battle this year.  It’s already half over anyway, and I had to fight to get her on independent study, and fight to allow her to skip the lessons she already exhibits mastery of, and fight to do all this stupid shit you’d think people who make a career out of providing the best education possible to future generations wouldn’t protest against.

But back to my point.

As many pros as there are to reproducing, the impact on one’s kink life is a rather significant entry in the con column.

Like last night.  Upon returning home from coffee with a friend at midnight-ish, I found Kazander lying on the couch, wearing his lacy panties, watching porn on his computer.

Moments later, I found myself sitting next to him, watching porn with him, pulling his panties off, and doing nice and not-so-nice things to his body.

And can I just say I love how masochistic he’s gotten lately?  Because I love how masochistic he’s gotten lately.  He’s never been one for a lot of CBT, but last night, when I pinched his cock and gripped his balls, he whimpered and curled up around me so sweetly, gasping and writhing in that sexy way of his.

Before long, I decided that just pinching wasn’t enough.  Out came the clothespins.

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It’s crazy how much better a dick looks when there are clothespins on it.

Slapping his balls, yanking on the clothespins, pinching and twisting his nipples, and biting his ear were my activities of choice to distract him from the video.

But, as is wont to happen when I watch porn, I got horny.  And I wanted a shower before making him go down on me.

So I set the computer down and told him he was going to pamper and bathe me.  Naturally, the clothespins were going to stay right where they were.

It was so much fun grinding my ass against his cock with the clothespins on.  Or running my fingertips lightly up his shaft, or nudging my knee against his groin.

And the noises he made when I finally took the clothespins off were just amazing.

The general plan was that he was going to lick me to an orgasm or two, then I would bend him over the edge of the bed and fuck him long and hard, and finally let him cum with my cock deep in his sore, raw, throbbing ass.

It started out well.  We went into our bedroom (which is right next to the kid’s bedroom) and locked the door, then I grabbed him by his hair and shoved his face in my cunt.

He licked me to one orgasm, but I wanted another one.  And I was almost fucking there when suddenly I heard crying from the next room.

“Oh, goddammit,” I muttered, pushing Kazander off me and opening the door.  I stood in the spawn’s doorway to see her sitting on the bed, crying.

She always wakes up at some point in the very early morning and comes to sleep in bed with me.  Apparently last night she woke up early.  Seeing that my bedroom door was closed, she went into the living room to look for Kazander, and didn’t see him there, so she started crying.

I reassured her, refilled her cup of water, and tucked her back in.

The mood was basically shot.

But I wasn’t completely cruel.  I would still let him cum.  Once I was sure she was alright and back in bed, I went back to the bedroom and closed the door.  I reached for a dildo and held it up for Kazander to see.

“Wanna take a guess where this is going?” I asked.

“Are you sure you want to do it?” he asked, referring to the possibility of another interruption.

“Yeah, but it’s going to be quick.”

So much for being able to endlessly tease and torment him.

I didn’t give him much time to get used to the size, and shoved the whole thing in him.

He was gasping and whimpering with pain, but his cute little clit was already dripping.  He really is such a butt slut.

It took only a minute or two before he came, I handed him a towel to clean up, pulled the dildo out of him, and that was the somewhat underwhelming finish to what I had intended to be a much longer play session.

Oh well.  We can always try again.  And only 13 more years until she goes off to college.

Fun with “well-meaning” sexists who think they’re not sexist.

So I was talking to my inlaws the other day, with the spawn in tow.  Suddenly, she came up to me, interrupting our conversation to shove her foot in my lap and exclaim, “Mommy!  I have hairy legs!”

“Congratulations, dear.”

“Do I have to shave them?”

“No, you’re too young for that.”

“Will I have to shave them when I’m a grown-up?”

Both my sister in law and I answered at the same time.  “No.”

But SIL added, “No, never shave.  Go and get waxed, that’s so much better.”

Well…

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I said, “Actually, she doesn’t have to wax either, if she doesn’t want to.”

That’s when my charming mother in law joined the conversation, scoffing and saying, “Yeah, then she’ll look like your sister.”

Now those of you who have been readers for awhile may remember me mentioning that my sister is a dirty, unwashed hippie.  Which I wouldn’t make fun of, if she wasn’t the most confrontational person on the fucking planet.

“My problem with my sister is that she doesn’t bathe,” I told them.  “I don’t care about her hair.  Lots of women don’t shave.  And more and more are stopping.  It’s kind of like this big thing.”

My father in law laughed and said, “Good luck with ever finding a man to put up with that.”

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Hold right the fuck up.

Okay, so there’s something you have to understand about my father in law.  He’s literally the friendliest, most talkative person you will ever meet.  And he’s remarkably open-minded for a conservative Republican.  Kazander has two female cousins, both of which are lesbians, and they both got married at the same ceremony as my inlaws’ vow renewal (a triple ceremony… the pastor I hired damn near had a heart attack when I told him).

However, he’s still a conservative Republican, with very conservative ideas and opinions.

And he’s slightly racist, which honestly shocked the hell out of me, since Kazander’s best friend (who lived with them for a couple years when they were teenagers) was black, and I’ve never seen him act differently toward black people.  I never knew.

Until one night, a couple of years ago, when he called Obama the “N” word (if you’re not from the US, just google it.  I’m not writing it out.  It’s a word that white people used to call black people during a not-hugely-fantastic chunk of our history, and it’s pretty damn racist for a white person to call a black person that now).

Okay, so my father in law called Obama (you know, the fucking President) a n*****.  In front of the spawn.

Who, of course, promptly inquired, “Mommy, what’s a n*****?”

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Fuck my life.  Fuck it right to hell.

So that was a fun conversation.  And my then-3-year-old learned a word that I’d hoped she would never hear used, and as a bonus, she also saw Mommy lose her fucking shit on her grandfather.

Okay, so back to the present.  My father in law said, “Good luck with ever finding a man to put up with that.”

And I said, “Wait just a minute, I spend literally 25 hours a year shaving my legs.  An entire fucking day, wasted.  And it’s costing your son like $500 dollars a year.  Waxing costs more.  That’s $2,500 since the spawn was born that could’ve gone toward her Disneyland trip, or her education, or taking her on a weekend trip at a ski resort so she could play in the snow.”

“Well people spend a lot on toilet paper too, but we still have to do it.”

“I don’t have to do shit.  I shave for one reason.  Literally only one reason.  And that’s because I prefer it.  Should I change my mind and not prefer it anymore, I’m going to stop.  You think I’m going to spend all that time and money, and cut the shit out of myself on a regular basis, just so some guy will think I’m ‘pretty?’  For a man’s approval?  You’re saying I have to go through all that nonsense because a man’s opinion is more important than my time, and my comfort, and my self-esteem?  Is that what you’re saying to your granddaughter?”

“No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.  I just meant–”

“You just meant that she won’t be able to get a boyfriend if she doesn’t shave her legs.  You just meant that men won’t approve of her decision, and that looking pretty for them is more important than what she wants.”

He stammered and stuttered, and my mother in law jumped to his defense.  “Some people just don’t like body hair, and they’re entitled to their opinion.”

“You’re right.  And how many of those people are straight women?  Do you like flossing every time you give a blowjob?  Because I sure fucking don’t.  But we don’t have a choice, right?  We just have to put up with it, right?  Why?”

“Because men don’t shave,” my FIL said.

 

“What about porn stars?  Most actors?  People who make a living out of looking good shave their body hair, regardless of gender.  Professional wrestlers shave their arms, legs, chest, and pits.  Swimmers, too.  Most athletes.  And why not?  Who decided that women have to shave, while men don’t?

“You’re not going to ever tell my daughter she has to do a goddamn, motherfucking thing to please anyone but herself.  And if she decides she doesn’t want to shave, you’re going to keep your outdated, sexist opinions to yourself.”

“Wait, I’m not sexist,” he said.

“You’re saying she has to shave because that’s attractive to men, and attracting a man is more important than her own self confidence.  How is that not sexist?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“That’s just the way it is.  I’m not saying it’s right, but that’s just the way it is.  That’s the way it’s been for years.”

“Uh huh.  And how many people said that about slavery?  About not letting women vote?  About paying women less than paying men?  Are you saying we should still own slaves and women shouldn’t have rights?  Because ‘that’s the way it is?'”

“Shaving is not the same thing.”

“No it’s not.  But it’s the same mindset.  And that mindset is a shitty one to have.”

“It doesn’t make someone sexist,” my mother-in-law said.

“That mindset isn’t why I called him sexist.  I called him sexist because he is saying that ‘looking good’ for a man is more important than what women want. (I turned back to FIL)  And yes, you are sexist.  You remember how uncomfortable you got when I breastfed the spawn in front of you?  You’re fine with me wearing low-cut shirts and push-up bras.  You’ve never once said that anything I wore was inappropriate.

“I know this because I’ve tested that theory.  Right after you asked me to feed my fucking child somewhere else.  You know, when you basically told me I wasn’t allowed to interact with people and feed my kid at the same time.  Remember the blue blouse I wore out to dinner when I was still breastfeeding, and my boobs were bigger than they are now?  Of course you do, you couldn’t stop staring.  I knew that was completely inappropriate to wear at a nice restaurant, but I wore it anyway to see what you’d say.  You didn’t have a single problem with it.

“So flaunting my tits as sexual objects for men to stare at is fine, but flaunting them for what they’re actually for makes you uncomfortable, because that’s not hot.  That’s not sexual, that’s not done for men’s approval, so that makes you uncomfortable.  And it makes you uncomfortable because at some level you feel like you have a right to every woman’s body.  Every woman you find attractive, you have the right to objectify and sexualize.  So when a woman does something that contradicts the way you see her, or interferes with your right to see her as nothing more than a sexual object, like breastfeeding, it makes you uncomfortable.  Right?”

“Lots of people are uncomfortable with breastfeeding,” FIL said.  “Women, too.”

“Lots of people are entitled to their opinions,” I answered.  “But when it comes to my daughter and her choices, you’re going to keep them to your fucking self, or you’re not going to be around her.”

That pissed the MIL off.  “So you’re going to use her as a pawn then?  To manipulate us?”

“Protecting her from being seen as a sexual object is using her as a pawn?  So again, your opinions are more important than her self image, and being comfortable with her body.  Shaming her for not conforming to an outdated and unrealistic standard of beauty is more important than encouraging her to think for herself.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I said if you can’t keep your opinions to yourself, you won’t see her.  You protested and accused me of using her to manipulate you.  Which means that you don’t agree with having to keep your opinions to yourself in order to see her.  Which means you want to be able to tell her that she has to shave if she ever wants a boyfriend, and that if she ever becomes a mother, she will become a social pariah, and will have to lock herself away from the world to breastfeed, because using her breasts for their biological purpose is shameful.  You want to push all that bullshit on her, otherwise you wouldn’t have a problem with me telling you to keep that shit to yourself.”

My MIL rolled her eyes.  “Fine.  Whatever.”

Fucking bitch.

I grabbed the spawn and left.  We made up after that, and everything’s fine, but I meant what I said.  I have no problem cutting them out of her life if they become toxic.

And it’s true.  I shave because prefer being hairless.  I shave and tweeze and pluck because I like it.  And I spend half an hour putting my makeup on because I like the way it makes me look.

I mean, please.  Do you think Kazander knows the difference between a cat eye, kitten eye, and pinup eye?

Do you think I own 9 shades of red lipstick to impress a guy who literally cannot tell the difference between Rebel, On Fire, and Dynamite?  Who, whenever I buy a new shade, asks, “Don’t you already have red lipstick?”

I do it for myself.  And I shave for myself.  I shower at night instead of in the morning, for a lot of reasons (not the least of which is because my hair is easier to style and looks better 10-ish hours after being washed, and don’t get me started on washing your hair every day), and one of the best feelings in the world is climbing into the soft sheets with freshly-shaven legs.  Seriously awesome feeling.

So I do it because I like it.  Should I ever change my mind, I’ll stop doing it.  And the men in my life will either deal, or they won’t.  And if they won’t, I’ll know that they care more about what society thinks, and my physical appearance, and ability to conform to society’s standard of beauty, than they care about me as a person.

If that’s the case, I don’t want them in my life, anyway, so that works out for me.

And I’ll be damned if I’m going to raise a girl who feels pressured to conform to what someone else thinks she should be.