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Through chance and strange happenstance, recently I found out that my friend (who for the sake of convenience we’ll call W) has an unusual fetish.

It’s something he’s never done before, but the fervent wish has warmed W’s mind (and other places too) for many years.  W envisions this as an entirely consensual scene, don’t worry — but it is extreme.  In first reading about this fantasy I felt a little squeamish.  For that reason I’ll put the fantasy behind the cut.

But one person’s extreme is another person’s missionary-with-the-lights-off, so I’d like to share W’s fantasy with you.  Perhaps, if the stars align correctly and the gods who control desire hear our ardent plea, we’ll find someone, somewhere, whose thoughts mesh well with W’s.

Click below to read exactly what W has in his pervy lil mind:

I’ll wait until my hand is all the way in your cunt, past the wrist. Until you’re snaking around on the bed, gripping onto me, and your right hand finds my left, interlacing your fingers with mine. I’ll hold you there on both my hands, slowly twisting each one, until my left one slips free of all your fingers except the pinkie.

I’ll pause here, twisting my other hand inside of you, watching as you ease into a state of helplessness. Then I will bend your finger back up into the air, onto the back of your hand, slowly, until you start to feel the pain of it. When you look at me with fear in your eyes, I’ll snap it back quickly, feeling you contract hysterically around me as your joint gives in.

Or maybe I’ll leave you fully clothed, come up behind you and do it fast. Maybe the only skin-on-skin contact we have will be my mouth on the back of your neck and my hand wrapped around your finger as I break it. Maybe your dick will get hard, or you’ll gush; maybe not.

One of the wonders of the internet age is that no matter what your interest, your difficulty, your hobby or your fetish, typing a single message in just the right spot can hook you up with dozens of folks from ’round the globe who are interested in the exact same thing.

It’s a miracle, really.  It’s almost like magic.

So.  Anyone share this interest?  If so, comment below or send me an email.  I’ll hook you up.

***Don’t even think about being derisive about W’s kink.  I know that every one of you has in the deepest chasms of your black little hearts some similarly perverse wishes.  Maybe you’ll even share them below. ***

Surrounded by glass plastic metal marble ceramic and silicone with which to buzz or thrust myself into near-instantaneous pleasure, I forget the feel of my own fingers gently spreading the soft hot flesh open to slide inside, to find the slick candy-pink wet heat of inner lips dolphin-smooth and spread plump against my body.

Why don’t I use my hands more often I wondered, marveling at the tenderness against the swelling hard marble rolling under my finger.  Why do I depend on technological brilliance when I carry the most sensitive tools with me everywhere I go?

But I have no time to ponder questions about our vibrating robot overlords because I’ve reached the peak, and nothing matters but impossibly silky skin exposed for the lips tongue and cock I so wish were there.

Our old school-year carpool disbanded in June due to children going off in different directions, so I’ve been casting about this summer for a new gas-saving and time-saving way to get my child where she needs to be.

We hit upon a likely candidate in one of my daughter’s friends who lives several blocks from us.  I’d spoken to the friend’s mother in the past, but I’d never been to her house until last week, when we went there for a post play date drop off.

I’d planned on inviting the mother over some morning so that we could get to know each other better, as her kids would be staying with me for a fraction of an hour before school each day.  However, my heart fell when I pulled into her driveway and saw the McCain bumper sticker on her car next to the metallic fish emblem, as well as the small wooden cross placed directly above the doorbell.

“Rally!” I heard a calm voice say in my head, so I choked down the ever-present but completely irrational worry about being seen as a slut by everyone, not just my parents, and asked her over.  I’m at fault for making the same sort of assumptions I fear others will make about me; when the visit rolled around we found much in common, including a difficult yet amicable divorce and a fervent desire to educate our daughters rationally about sex.

I have to wonder though if she would have been so accepting of me if she knew about my employment.  I have to wonder this about all my friends who know little if anything about my means of support other than that it involves words and the internet.  Would they still like me?  Would they dump me immediately, or pull away gradually?  Would they worry about allowing their children at my house?

Er…just for the record?  I’ve moved the box of dildos to an even more secure location.  And I’ve not yet begun the project to recycle my unwanted vibrators into an altogether unique wind chime.

It’s something I’ve struggled with since the inception of this blog.  I want complete transparency.  I want no appreciable disconnect between the online persona and the real life persona. I want nothing less than no secrets from anyone, anytime, anywhere.  Not, you understand, no privacy…just no secrets.

But probably that’s way too much for me to hope.

I caught the weather on teevee the other night, a rare thing in my house as the channel usually lands on something involving dinosaurs, Disney characters or (lately) beautiful men dripping wet.  Er, that last one is only for me.

Nothing in the report caught my attention but for the almanac.  The meteorologist lingered over the fact that a few years back, my area had experienced record low temperatures.  Mid-August’s usually sweltering days had given way to highs in the 60s and lows in the 40s; reading the facts and dates brought me vividly back to that year.

My eldest child was on the cusp of entering school.  The little ones hadn’t yet been born.  I was enjoying more free time than I’d had in years, and during the cold streak in question I’d been using the hours after her bedtime to read on the back porch.

Wrapped in a blanket to keep off the cold and armed with tea, I’d take to the porch with a book and a tiny reading light.  It was a lovely retreat, and most days I was at least moderately content to spend a few hours out there reading while my husband worked or played computer games.

But on the chilliest Friday something was different.  Was it hormones?  An extra-hard dose of child-inspired loneliness?  Too long since our last attempt at sex?  I don’t know, but on that Friday night I needed the comfort and warmth of the man who I’d hoped would be my partner forever.  I suggested it to him as he headed off to his work and computer.  “Can we have some time alone this weekend?  Maybe tonight?  Or tomorrow?” I asked, attempting the lowest-pressure sell possible.

“I’m not going to have the time,” he answered.  “I really need to finish that project for work, and I need to organize everyone’s fantasy football picks by Monday.  Maybe early next week?”

And then he scooted off, leaving me with book and tea on the desk.

It was the first of many moments of clarity I experienced over the state of our relationship.  I cried, book and tea forgotten as the idea of an entire weekend without any sort of physical solice from him sunk into my brain.  I cried for over an hour as it grew chilly and dark, and if my neighbors peeked out their windows and wondered whatever was the matter with me I could not have cared any less.

Eventually I fetched my paper journal and wrote for a while, calming down as pen pushed hard against paper.  It wasn’t enough to cure the bitter loneliness, but it was enough to keep me going for a few more days.

Now, several years later, I think I should have known better.  I should have known then.  But finally I figured it out — we both figured it out — and neither one of us will ever have to spend another weekend where we’re together but so painfully far apart.

What do you want?

I must've asked myself this question a hundred times in the past few months.

What am I willing to do to make this relationship work?
Whatever is necessary. I tell myself.

I love this man. He thrills me. I can wait for us to figure this out.

So I wait. I did not walk away because of this one situation. I walk away because situations like this one happened ALL the time.

For the past few months, my place in his life, comes after everything else. After work, kids, friends, golf...

I can and would live with this if we were in a casual relationship. But if I'm in an exclusive, committed relationship, I require more than 1%. If I’m going around calling myself committed, I demand commitment.

If I have a plant that needs watering once per week, but I water it once a month, what will become of that plant?

Folks, that plant will die.

A relationship is no different. I don’t complain about our weekend relationship. I’m a working woman with a goal and a plan. So him being away weekdays means that I get work done without interference.

I am a single mom of two boys and my boys comes first. So not only do I understand that his children are priority, I greatly admire his commitment to them. But I also understand that as my man, Nick needs me too, and if I want us to work and grow, and bond, I have to fit him into my life.

He doesn't seem to understand that part.

I don't ask for much. I ask only that when he sets aside one day out of the month for me, that time is not up for grabs.

Is that too much to ask?

I understand that things happen. But they cannot happen ALL the time. I cannot be the one who is always compromised.

I matter and that I'll never compromise.

You’re not going to believe what’s sitting next to me.  It’s this:

Considering how many (oh how very many) buzzing plastic toys pass through my hands in the course of an ordinary week, it’s hard anymore for a vibrator to make me squirm with anticipation.

But the SaSi Vibe from Babeland?  It’s making me squirm.  It’s charging right now, and as soon as that green light it up, I’m diving in.  Because the cool thing about SaSi is that it’s supposed to remember.

Yeah, that’s right.  It remembers what you like.  And it does more of what you like.  It’s supposed to be just like oral sex.

See why I’m squirming?  And tingling?  And burbling?

I’ll report back asap.  Wish me luck.

Pst.  My good pal Shay has moved to a brand spanking new address.  Go check her out!

*******

Not long ago, the makers of Ambrosia asked if I’d like to try out their product, a supplement meant to improve the taste of semen.  Does this mean that I have a reputation as a prodigious consumer of that creamy treat?  Oh my mother will be so proud!

Ambrosia consists of fruit and spice extracts compressed into a pill about the size of a multivitamin.  Men take two capsules per day; the company guarantees an improvement in the taste of ejaculate or they’ll refund 110% of your purchase price.

Sounds promising.

When I received my supply, I realized that one of the ingredients was strawberry, to which I am exquisitely allergic.  I’m a complete pussy about subjecting myself to something that has the potential to give me a huge case of hives (not to mention near-terminal crankiness) for weeks on end, so I divided up the supply between some jizz-loving pals and asked them to report back to me.

They did, with pleasure.  One confided that her partner’s taste was already pretty neutral.  She had no complaints prior to using Ambrosia, but she said that after using the product, his taste seemed sweeter and fruitier.  Nice.

Another tester told me that she’d long found the taste of her man’s sperm to be offensive.  He’s a heavy smoker and drinks a lot of coffee.  After trying Ambrosia, she found his orgasms to be just a bit less objectionable, though by no means delicious.

Given the results, someone who wants to sweeten the taste of oral sex might find Ambrosia worthwhile.

Or you can click below for some other possibilities:

1. Stop smoking.
2. Drink less coffee.
3. Get more exercise.
4. Eat less red meat.
5. Avoid asparagus, broccoli, garlic, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts.
6. Consume fewer dairy products.
7. Try this:

AAG’s Cum-Sweetening Smoothie

• 2 cups frozen sliced strawberries
• 1 cup pineapple juice
• 1 cup orange juice
• 1 ripe banana
• 1 teaspoon vanilla

Blend all ingredients until very smooth.  Pour into two glasses.  Share one with partner.  Drink immediately.  Repeat each night for best results.

For even more substantial results, blend in two shots of rum.  Serve on the porch.  While watching the sunset.  In Jamaica.

If you follow all these suggestions, the tastiness of your oral sex is (almost) guaranteed.

“Didn’t you ever smoke?” my little ones’ mother asked while lighting a cigarette of her own.

I shook my head no.  “Well, for about five minutes,” I admitted.  “I never liked it.  Which is a good thing, because if I’d liked it, I never would have been able to stop.”

She nodded.  “I stopped when I was pregnant for the first time, but with this one?”  She nodded toward her second child, my little boy.  “I drank, and smoked, and smoked cigarettes.”  The boy in question chose that moment to attempt a dive off the picnic table, so the thread of the conversation dropped.

Moments later (perhaps encouraged by his aborted acrobatic efforts), the boy filled his diaper.  “You never got him circumsised?” she asked, watching the changing process from a safe distance.  “Aren’t you going to?”

“No, I’m not planning on it.  He’s perfectly fine intact.”

“He’ll get an infection,” she worried.  “It’s a scientific fact that guys get infections if they don’t get cut.”

“If he wants to have it removed when he’s older, I’ll help him set it up,” I said, hiking up the pants of the boy with difficulty, as he was straining to get back to the very important business of climbing.

And then someone tried to play with the trash can, and someone else tried to break toward the parking lot, and someone else’s toy fell into the mud.  Both of us responded to these little issues until the time allotted for the visit was over.

It wasn’t until the drive home that her comments sunk into my head. How is one expected to reply to the perfectly casual mention of alcohol and drug use during pregnancy juxtaposed with the irrational worry about an intact foreskin?

I sat at Nick’s Kitchen table listening to him on the phone with his ex-wife.

From Nick's side of the conversation it was clear that she made last minute plans and wanted Nick to take the kids… on our weekend, that we planned weeks ago. This was constant. He never says no, I have plans.

Never.

Between the kids and traveling, time together was almost non-existant. We were going to try and reconnect.

I stare at him as he agree to take them at the same time flashing me an apologetic look. The same look that I received the week before when one of his friends called to play golf. Instead of saying "no, I'm spending the day with Kitten," he told me that he was going to play golf. I cursed him out.

But not this time. I was done. Enough. No more tantrums. What the fuck am I fighting for?

“I’m sorry, baby but…” he started when he got off the phone.

“I have to get going,” I said. “If you still want that fuck, now's the time to get it,”

“Aren’t we going talk about the weekend?”

“I don’t have anything to say about it,” I answered. He looked at me seeming puzzled. “I’m sorry we have to change our plans, but she wants me to take the kids…”

“Are we going to fuck or not?”

“Can we talk first?”

“It’s not a problem,” I said. “Because I’ve decided that you and I are no longer an issue. I’ve decided that what we have right now is all we’ll ever have. Lets call this what it is…this is a casual let’s meet and fuck relationship. That’s all it’s been for a while now. And we can, for now, continue to meet and fuck when it's convenient for us. But there is no need pretending that we’re in a committed relationship when there‘s obviously no commitment on your part,"

“Wait a minute. What the fuck are you talking about?” I closed my computer and got up from his kitchen table.

“I’m going to take off,” I said. And I walk away feeling more like me than I have in months. I left him staring after me.

It hit me as I opened my car door and climbed in how familiar this scene was in my life.

Mi pleazure, let me show u it:

Jimmyjane Contour M+Afterglow Sensory Set:  I’m now cured of my irrational fear of hot dripping wax.

Hump: True Tales of Sex After Kids:  See, someone else parents and fucks and writes about it.  IT’S NOT JUST ME.

After Watching This Guide, I’m a Positioning Expert!!!!!!!:  Tristan Taormino’s guide to doing more than missionary.

It’ll Bowl You Over:  Ok, so it’s a vibrator shaped like and and named after our favorite Saturday night date activity.  A dorky name doesn’t mean that it can’t be effective.  Rly.

Lelo Mia:  This is so freaking cool I can’t stand it.  A vibe!  That’s rechargeable!  Via your computer’s USB port!

Big-n-Pointy:  It’s exceptionally large and very pointy, but perhaps you gathered that from the title?

New Wave Wooden Dildo:  We had one of these up as swag a few weeks ago.  I don’t know if the winner is enjoying hers, but I certainly am enjoying mine.

I Rub My Duckie Vibe:  From Babeland.  So cute!  You’ll die from the cute!

Flagrante Delicto:  Naked pictures of naked people doing all kinds of fun naked things.  My partner and I looked through approximately twenty pages before he whisked me off to the bedroom.

It’s like ordering a bucket of popcorn at the movie theater.  But we’ll get to that in just a moment.

Lately I’ve been procrastinating hard over the book proposal.  To keep me from freaking out (too much), I’m instead obsessively cleaning out closets and drawers.  I’ve thrown out bank statements from ‘04 and my penultimate wedding invitation.  I organized the kids’ toys.  It’s amazing how many filched kitchen implements those little scamps had squirreled away.  And I’ve been perving online dating site profiles.

What?  Is there a problem with that?

As I skim through profiles and absorb the pertinent information, a few key things jump out at me.  Is he playing without his partner’s permission?  I click on the “next” button.  Does he use recreational drugs “occasionally”?  Click!  Is he looking for a thin woman?  CLICK.  If he’s made it through the preliminary round of inquisition, I take a closer look.  What I’m getting to is that I look at his nakee pictures.  Dude.  I’m only human.

I don’t look so much because I get off on tiny grainy pictures of men in the altogether, although there is some charm is seeing photographic evidence of physical virility repeated dozens of times over.  Instead, I like to see if the image matches with the written description.  Unfortunately, it often doesn’t.

Perhaps this would be a good time for a caveat.  I’ve loved and lusted over men with cocks both big and small.  I’ve been horrified by the skills of men who have owned both extremes of penises.  I’ve also been enchanted by the skills of men with equally disparate appendage measurement.  In short, I’ve have little preference in that area other than “it works well” and “it likes me.”

But here’s my issue.  I’ve grown tired of reading descriptions that promise “long/thick” organs that are anything but under the light of a camera’s flash.  I’ve seen a “long/thick” cock that barely protruded rock hard and straining from beneath a modest pubic pelt.  I’ve seen a “long/thick” cock nestled invitingly between the parted wet lips of a lover, but whose head was separated by barely two inches from its owner’s body.  I’ve seen a “long/thick” cock grasped in a hand where the red painted nails overlapped the thumb to the first joint.

These my friends are not long/thick cocks, and I will now remind you of that buttery movie theater treat.  Upon being promised a huge, overflowing, never-ending bucket of popcorn, the expectation in your mind has been set and set high.  No one really needs a barrel of popcorn, but if the offer has been made, you want it fulfilled, and by God there had better be enough for ten people.

Think of how different your mind-set would be if you were told to expect an average-sized bucket.  Or even a small bucket!  When once the snack arrived, you might be surprised by a more than fulfilling quantity.

I call today for nothing more or less than the truth in penis marketing.  Men, if you have an penis that is average in length and/or girth, wear it proudly.  Use it proudly.  Say “NO!” to the artificial inflation of cock statistics and yesYesYES to being honest about what’s rockin’ in your pants.

Proclaim “I’m average!” with your head — and your dick — held high.

In the past week I’ve done a lot of thinking about the risks inherent in writing publicly about parenting and sexuality.  I’ve pondered how other people have addressed the coexistence of these two topics, and how this blog either succeeds or fails at staying on grounds that seem acceptable and not creepy.  Or actionable.

After nearly three years of writing here, I’ve touched on dozens of potentially inflammatory issues.  Sexual abuse and assault.  Multiple partners and polyamory.  Play-parties, threesomes, foursomes.  Sex with other people watching.  And let’s not forget the buttsex.  Oh please, let’s never forget the buttsex.

Sandwiched between entries that many would find reprehensible are posts about my children.  About flung sand, picnics on the grass, watering flowers, bathtub antics, bedtime insurgencies.  About adoptions, a birth mother, a divorce.  About managing the emotions that come from loss, whether it’s over a broken toy, a dying cat or parents who no longer live in the same house.

To me the entries feel seamless. I see the huge swaths of time between parenting and fucking, though I’m not sure I mention them enough.  In many cases I struggle to transition from mommy-mode to lover-mode and back again, but I rarely mention those struggles.  I don’t mention the decompression necessary between mothering and lover-ing, but it’s there.  The dildo-fondling cocksuckery does not take place at exactly the same time as the child-instigated sand-flinging, nor does the buttsex happen concurrently with the supervision of backyard shenanigins.

For many good reasons, not the least of which is that I don’t have enough hands.

Perhaps — though I don’t know for certain — my former spouse would be appalled to know that the mother of his children writes about adult products and the men she loves.  Or that I have a basket of dildos on top of the refrigerator. Or that I look at porn when they’re in bed at night.  Or that this site accepts ads for stores that sell sex toys.  Or that I’ve bent over the kitchen counter (and the washer, and the front bumper of the minivan, and the bathtub, and the dining room table, and the back of the couch) — when the kids are with him, out of the house.

He might be appalled, but would he use those things in some possible future custody dispute?

The simple solution I suppose would be to follow the recommendations of the Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund.  If you want to avoid custody issues with a former partner you should “Keep your sex life off the Internet. Don’t blog, create webpages, or post to open or archived lists about sexually explicit material” and “Keep your sex life separate from your parenting.”

That advice is safe.  It’s safe in the same way as advice that you shouldn’t ride in a car if you’re worried about crashing, or walk across the street if you fear being hit by a bus.  It’s safe advice, but is it something that realistically I want to follow?

Another possibility would be simply to tell him what I do for a living.  The less that’s hidden, the better, perhaps.  But that is an idea that would need to be vetted with someone knowledgeable in legal matters.

Being close to the situation, I’ve lost all perspective.  I forget that not every parent has a box of dildos on top of the refrigerator — or multiple partners.  So I ask you, readers:  Are you skeeved out by the interspersion of salacious and maternal love?  Does it seem odd or uncomfortable to you?  Would the subjects be better suited to separate blogs?  Do you think less of a mother because she talks about sex?

And, please, I don’t want to hear fifty responses of the “rawk on, dude” variety and none from the “this creeps me out” camp.  Please be constructively blunt and speak your mind.

I’d rather know now than too late.

You’ve heard me get all gushy-like before about Kink.com, whose family of sites I’ve had the pleasure of viewing for Jane’s Guide.  They are the epitome of hardcore porn that’s both high quality and ethical.

For the first time, Kink.com is now offering DVDs of their work.  Their first two releases feature material from Fucking Machines and Ultimate Surrender.  Each runs well over 200 minutes and includes over 100 minutes of bonus Kink material.

Sweet.

Because of the generosity of my ultra-top-secret contact at Kink, I’ve got four — four! — DVDs to give away, two of Fucking Machines Volume 1:  Meet the Machines and two of Ultimate Surrender Season 1:  Volume 1.

If you’d like to get in on this contest, leave a comment with a working email address (visible only to me); if you are chosen, you’ll need to give your address to the fine folks at Kink.com so they can ship the DVD out to you.  I’ll choose our four winners at some point after the contest ends at 12:01 am on Monday, August 11th.

And because this post just doesn’t have enough naughty stuff in, go check out Kink.com’s newest site, the incredibly luscious boy-on-boy site Bound Gods.  Damn but don’t I love some sexy boy-boy lurve.

About some things I am extremely conscientious.  The housework gets dealt with in a relatively timely manner.  The kids’ doctor appointments and medicine refills are scheduled well in advance.  Groceries are consistently plentiful.  I never miss a carpool.

But I’ve had one task on my to-do list for nearly nine months now with precious little progress toward crossing it off.  An incredibly patient literary agent emailed me at the end of last November (last November!), and here in the middle of August, I’m still not done.

Well, I’ve produced one proposal, but it just wasn’t right.  I toiled for months on that one and now I’ve continued to work for even more months on a new one.  Long stretches pass when I cannot bear even to open the document; even longer stretches pass with me staring blankly at the screen.

The hesitation boils down to this:  I fear failure.  I pull up the document and type a word, then wait (it’s never a long wait) for an evil voice to yell into my ear that I am a fraud.  That I’m not capable of writing an entire book.  Only good writers turn out books … and I’m definitely not a good writer.

Real writers have offices.  They work in silence on gleaming computers whose sole purpose is the creation of art.  Unlike me.  I work at the kitchen table or the couch on a computer used for about a dozen entirely prosaic tasks.  It’s full of sand.  And silence?  With little children in the house, it’s never silent.  Not even when they’re asleep.  How could I possibly write a book under those conditions?

And yet today, two events happened.  The extraordinarily patient agent emailed me yet again with a cheerful little message.  And my mother called.

“How’s work on the book coming?” she asked hesitantly.  I grumbled something unintelligible in response.

She paused before answering, “I’m almost afraid to know what it’s going to be about.”

And a light went on above my head.  Perhaps this exactly the motivation I need.  Could I … could I really write a book that would horrify my mother?  Even half as much as this site has?

I’m pulling up the document now.

The moment before I pulled up this blank screen, the boy attempted to move my newly-poured cup of Diet Coke from where it was quite happily situated upon the patio table.  Apparently he sensed that I needed it closer to me, even though closer to me meant that it was also closer to the laptop.  I watched with a mixture of encouragement and horror, fearing that if I moved to take the drink from his hands he’d startle and spill the dark liquid across a keyboard already lousy with sand.

Prior to that the two smallest ones attempted to scale the fence, a tree, several stacked lawn chairs and the compost heap despite having earlier turned up their noses at very fine climbing equipment located at a city park.  Cool plastic with no rough seams built by conscientious engineers whose only goal was the maximum joy of children, and they scorned it entirely.  They dragged  around as woefully as you’d expect from children at a funeral — though surely my children would caper with intemperate glee at any funeral they’d attend.  They’d probably scale the coffin.

And the tattling, oh holy mother of glass dildos the tattling.  The tattling I cannot bear, especially when the eldest child baits her younger siblings.  “Let’s fight,” she’ll say, sotto voce; but the second a small person responds by wildly swinging in imitation of some random Power Ranger, she screeches “Mom, he’s hitting me!”  As if she’d been sitting quietly reading Plato.

On days like this one I do not know how I’m going to make it though the next decade and a half plus until the youngest one is out of high school.  Honestly.  If a circus were at the moment in my town I’d be tempted to run off with it, even though I have no acrobatic skills and my elephant poo shoveling abilities would surely leave something to be desired.

But an elephant wouldn’t talk back.  It would not sit petulantly on the floor and refuse to use the toilet even though we’re late to take another child to class and I know the potty will be needed desperately the instant the mini kicks into gear.  An elephant would not throw sand on its sister and then scream when the sister tosses grass back.

An elephant would not tattle.  Of that I am completely certain.

As I finish this, a knot of my children and some neighborhood hangers-on has gathered beneath a shady tree to examine someone’s new Pokemon cards.  All is at peace as a half-dozen brown, black and blond heads bend toward the notebook spread open on the grass, until one of my small darlings leaps up. She knocks askew two hats.  As she races off she screams, “So long, suckers!”

And I’m half-tempted (and I’m only half-joking when I say it) to run off screaming the exact same thing.

An enjoyably large portion of this summer’s writing has sprung into existence while I’ve sat on the porch, an elevated perch from which I can both observe childish play and still be invisibly tethered to the wireless connection emanating from some dozen feet away inside the house.

This is the first summer I’ve felt comfortable enough (though by no means secure) with the children’s play to watch from a distance of more than six inches.  This is partially due to their greater maturity and partially due to the locks I’ve placed on the gate.

I feel truly blessed that I have this place where we can work and play together.  The only drawback (other than mosquitoes, thrown sand, possible broken bones and the ingestion of mulch) is that the sun heats the deck to somewhere near the temperature of the Earth’s core in the morning hours.

So it was with great interest that I spied a patio umbrella at a yard sale down the block from my house not long ago.  I caught a glimpse as we drove past on the way to a play date; the sight hit me with nostalgia so strong that I vowed to stop for a closer look if it was still available when we came home.

I thought about it all through the play date.  You see, we’d had an umbrella similar to the one I’d glimpsed when I was a teenager.  Sunny yellow vinyl on the outside gave way to a green, orange and yellow pattern of stylized poppies on the inside.  Hanging from the scalloped edge was a longish fringe of mop-like white twists.  I hoped it would still be there when we were done.  I wanted it to be exactly the same.

And it was.  Right down to the dented aluminum base filled with sand.  Right down to the creaky handle.  Right down to the faint scent of mildew that came off of it as I stood in its shade and handed over a bill.

The children were enchanted at the existence of such a large umbrella despite their cognitive dissonance in learning that this umbrella was meant to be open in the sun and closed in the rain.  With assistance from a half-dozen clumsy (but enthusiastic) hands, we set it up and immediately commenced enjoying our purchase.

They wandered off some time ago but I stayed put.  I told a friend (on the phone) about my find; I waxed poetic about how it reminded me of my teenage years.  “You really want a reminder of your teenage years?” he asked dubiously.

“Well, it’s like my teenage years minus the emotional abuse and threats of loss of love, yes,” I answered.

And later this week, I’ll have the singular joy of welcoming another blogger onto my porch.  Figleaf and his family will be passing through my small city on summer vacation, and if plans hold, we will enjoy sandwiches and fruit while our offspring romp in the yard.  I can’t wait.

Figleaf, you won’t mind the slight smell of mildewy umbrella, will you?

——

Take a moment to visit Viviane’s Sex Carnival to learn more about blogger and Fleshbot Sex Round-Up contributor Jefferson’s legal issues.  Please help if you can.

The kitties we acquired some months back are maturing nicely.  Sleek and luxurious of coat, they’ve developed the slight paunches of well-fed, castrati lover boys who spend the majority of their time snacking and purring with only brief periods where enough exertion is required to avoid the unregulated attentions of grabby-handed toddlers.

In short, they are very happy with us, and the feeling is more than returned by their human staff members.

They might be the nicest cats who have ever owned me.  Never before have I had feline companions who come to bed with me at night, curl on my head while I fall asleep, then magically reappear the moment I awake in the morning.  ‘Tis true.  They must hear the slight change in breathing when I return from Nod; before I even remove what’s affectionately know around here as my “funny hat” I’m joined in bed by my shiny purring companions.  They don’t even seem particularly interested in campaigning for food.  They’re genuinely glad to see me.

They do have one bad habit.  It seems that after they grow bored of watching over my slumber, they move on to harassing my eldest child.  A number of times she’s dragged her weary self into my room first thing in the morning, complaining that the kitties woke her in the dark of night.

The first time this happened I asked for an explanation.  “They come in, Mommy, and they want to play.  They get in bed with me and bite my hair.  They won’t leave me alone!  They were in my room at 3:15 and then at 4:30!”

I had trouble holding back a guffaw.  “You’ll have to put them out, honey.  And then shut your door.”

She’s now adept at this, but it doesn’t prevent dark circles and a certain degree of lethargy from affecting her the next morning.  She needs her sleep almost as much as do I, and even a brief interruption to herd cats upsets her delicate internal resting mechanism.

I shouldn’t find it amusing, but I do.  I think of all the times that she woke me in the middle of the night as an infant and even long after infancy had passed.  Since she was the first child, I hadn’t the willpower (or the bullshitometer) that developed with subsequent children.  When at eight months, eleven months, or even fifteen months she woke at 2 am, wide-eyed and wanting to cuddle, I indulged her, which gave me the dark circles and lethargy I now see in her.

It’s payback, brought down upon her head by cats.  I love it.

Looking at those circles I wonder how she’ll be with her own first child, or if she’ll even have children.  Will I get to pop by her house some morning twenty years in the future, perky and brisk after a full night’s sleep, hot shower and calm breakfast?  Will I see dark circles under her eyes, unwashed hair, jammies still unchanged from the day before?  Will the sweet smell of breast milk float up from her chest as she wearily passes a black-haired squalling infant to me so that she can shower and nap?

As amusing as feline-inspired dark circles are now, I so hope I get to see the ones caused some twenty years down the road by her offspring.  I promise not to laugh.

Much.

At nap time I curled in bed with a sticky-fingered, cranky boy.  I endeavored to move his scant thirty-five pounds (and some of the contents of the sand box, which somehow he brought with him) just slightly farther away from me, as he’d already taken his half out of the middle and I knew it would only get worse as he tossed about in sleep.

Once comfortable, he gripped my fingers while his eyelids grew heavy.  I observed from the edge.  His eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, fluttered almost closed, then popped back open to rest on me.  We watched each other as he fell completely to sleep, laughing under his breath twice when the first dream hit.

Something about his face at rest now is the same as it was in the minutes after his birth.  Pushed free from a less-than-nurturing belly, he spent only moments in his mother’s arms before he became tangled in the phone cord (she needed to call her paramour) and was handed off to me.

I intended to make myself scarce after the child was delivered.  I wanted to give her time to enjoy him in those first magical minutes without my assistance.  Or interference.

Instead everything else receded into a snowy haze (his mother on the phone, the doctor fixing her bottom, the nurses fluttering about, ) as he fell asleep to my crooning.  I couldn’t love him.  I didn’t want to love him.  Knowing as I did (and do) her inability to parent properly, I thought watching his life at her hands would be too hard to bear if I loved him.

But how do you not love the child placed in your arms moments after birth?

It would be easy to believe, perhaps, that our destiny was decided as I held him then; that the universe and his mother and I came to some tacit agreement about how the next several months would play out. It would also be easy to believe (and Lord knows even now I have trouble not believing it) that with avarice I grasped him away from both his mother and another family more deserving than mine, wretched and stumbling and eventually defunct even as he was only an infant.

Call it fate or greed.  Either of those things would be easier to believe though ultimately untrue.

Instead, something in the middle is closer to the truth.  His mother and I made a series of choices that eventually brought the child to my house, to falling asleep in my bed while clutching my sandy hand.

I watch him with pleasure and a not inconsiderable degree of guilt, and I wonder if other parents of unplanned — though not unwanted — children understand all too well the ever-present quality of that guilt.

Hanging out in bed the other night (Alone.  I was alone.  See, mom?  Not slutty all the time!), it ran through my mind how very lucky I am to be doing what I’m doing.

Despite the workload, erratic paychecks, never-ending pressure to produce, and fractured thoughts that come from working around children, I am infinitely thankful that I can help support my family while I’m at home with them.

And yet I don’t express that gratitude nearly enough.  So today is the day:

• Thank you for reading here each day, or each week, or every so often.  It cheers me to see the stat counter turning over, not because I care so much about the numbers (though I do, just not so much anymore) but because it shows that you’ve been here.  There’s something very comforting about that.

• Thank you for dropping tips into my PayPal account.  It’s helped more than I can say.

• Thank you for reading what I’ve put up over at Jane’s Guide.  (I do get a lil lonely over there.  Would love to have evidence *cough*comments*cough* of your visits from time to time.  HINT HINT.)

• Thank you for stopping by to ask questions or say hi while I’m doing the Expert Help thing.  It’s been a real pleasure to meet those of you who have utilized that service.

• Thank you for visiting the affiliate links I’ve posted.  It tickles me to no end when I think of y’all using the stuff you’ve purchased.  Yes, I fantasize about it.  Is that wrong?

• Thank you for all the advice / opinions / encouragement you’ve posted when I’ve asked for feedback.  I feel incredibly lucky to have supportive readers who (almost) never give me a hard time.  I know how rare that can be in this medium where so many have been hassled by trolls, stalkers or the painfully ignorant.

• Thank you for pushing me on the book proposal.  I will finish it.  Soon.  If I have to write it in blood, not necessarily my own.

Thank you.  I do appreciate all of you.

And now, just for fun, I’m posting (after the cut) a photo I took a couple years ago that I found recently on someone’s Flickr.  Enjoy!

Not long ago I met a pleasant fellow for a date at a local truck stop so that we could enjoy together a glass or two of iced tea.  (Don’t mock.  It’s a very nice truck stop.)  All key indicators pointed to him being a possible addition to my little band of lovers at some point in the future, if the interest continued rising on both our parts.

It certainly seemed to be rising, as we visited and sipped tea.  But then schedules became thorny over the next few weeks, what with summer vacations, out of town plans, children and the like, so our communication was limited to the phone and IM.  And that was fine.  I’m in no rush. Contrary to the dire imaginings of my parents, I don’t just find some likely dude’s picture online and then immediately cast myself into bed with him.  Would that it were so easy!  I’d never spend a night alone!

Anyhow.

I received a message from him last weekend asking for my phone number again.  He went on to tell me that he’d lost his phone and had to get a new one.  “How did you manage to lose your phone,” I inquired.  I’m never one to let a potentially juicy story slip past unquestioned.

“A hooker stole it,” he reported.

That’s the moment I became glad we were having this conversation over the IM and not the telephone.  “How did that happen?” I asked.

“I was stopped at a light.  She jumped into my car like I was a customer.  By the time I got her out, she’d managed to steal my phone.”

“I see,” I said.  “How did you manage to get her out?”

“Gave her a twenty and told her I wasn’t interested.  And now I’ve got to replace a $400 phone!”

I commiserated with his situation, but now I’m wondering.  Does this seem just a tiny bit odd?  Unlikely?  Unusual?  I admit that my knowledge of this sort of thing is very limited, so I ask for your help in sussing out any hidden meanings in this story.

Or am I just too jaded to believe a simple tale of red light larceny?