*blush*

Look what Master ordered to take to camp at Spankfest.

Can you say humiliate me?

He’s looking for more games and dubbing it “The Kaya Karnival”.

He thinks I’m gonna make prizes.

…

…

…

…

Suddenly, I think I’m getting sick.

*cough* *cough*

Yeah. I’m way too sick to camp.

Logic and Reason

There is logic and reason to the bedtime.

As I said yesterday, bedtime is not a new thing. It’s been standard operating procedure since we’ve been together. When he goes to bed, I go to bed. And it has a purpose even.

Bedtime, the time when HE goes to bed, is when he is most likely to require service. From foot rubs to back massages to sucking dick to fucking to being the go-n-gimme-cunt. (As in “Go and gimme a glass of water, cunt” or “Go and gimme something to eat, cunt.”)

So it’s not purposeless, not “for my health”, not “because he can” (entirely anyway). It’s because 99% of the time, he has a use for me.

And 99% of the time, I don’t even hesitate, or think anything of it. I just follow him to the bedroom.

He’s also not mean or unreasonable about it. Sometimes he’s really tired and wants to crawl into bed at Early o’clock, at which point I still follow him to the bedroom and wait around long enough for him to decide if he wants or needs anything and then he’ll dismiss me back to my other duties.

Other times, if he’s feeling generous and there’s a tv show on that I like to watch that runs late, he’ll tell me I can stay up and finish watching it. Other times, he tells me to DVR it and get my ass to bed.

It’s never been a problem before. Ever. Like.. ever.

Sometimes I’ll drag my feet a little bit and whine that I’m not tired but he simply tells me to shut up and read a book then.

It’s seriously just not been anything that’s gotten under my skin to the point that it did the other day. It’s never been anything that’s made me feel like an incompetent child.

I am going to chalk it up to a combination of hormones, stress and the fact that there hasn’t been hands on control and I just reacted to the order. Intellectual whiplash sounds good. *nods*

So last night, he goes to the bedroom and I follow him and he turns around and nonchalantly says “You don’t have to go to bed if you don’t want to.”

And I damn near start to cry. I know what he’s doing. Reverse psychology is the oldest trick in the book!

Because it works.

Of course I want him to want me in bed with him. I want him to need me, to use me.

How does it feel to think I’m NOT needed for service?

Sucks, dude. Sucks rotten eggs.

So I sucked his dick extra special good to make up for being a stoopid brat.

I’m no less… confuzzled on the whole child vs. slave conundrum. But maybe it’s just going to be that if I’m in a relationship that involves rules and punishment and not just service or expectations, then at times I’m going to feel like a child.

Because it does mimic parenting. But that does not make me a child. I’m gonna have to rectify this in my head.

It’s weird though, to be out in the living room being the parent and enforcing rules to the kids and then stepping into that other world where I have to check the authority figure at the door because *my* authority figure is sitting on the bed, tapping his foot, ready to lay down HIS rules on my ass.

Anyway. Enough about that for now.

This week is *crazy* for appointments. Yesterday, Master had an eye doctor appt. Today, Am has a doctors appt. this morning and The Boy has a dentist appt. this afternoon. I have a doctors appt. tomorrow, Jes had a doctor’s appt. on Friday and I *think* Am has an orthodontist appt. sometime this week, too. I should go look that up before I miss it.

So. Yeah. Thank the powers that be for decent health insurance. Jeebus.

Am’s teeth are really looking good. None of us have perfectly straight teeth but Am’s were truly bad. She had one of those smiles where it was the first thing you noticed and the first thing you thought was “Wow. She should get those fixed.” So, even though it’s been uber-expensive (and ask me sometime about the incompetent dentist in Wis. who bilked us out of a thousand dollars. Grr!) I don’t regret a penny of it. (Except for that grand! Grrs!)

I fully expect that she’ll get them taken off soon. Her top teeth are nice and straight and there’s just the tiniest little gap left to close from where they had to pull a tooth on the bottom. So worth it for her self-esteem. I wish I’d have gotten braces when I was kid. It’s not anything I’d ever do now, as an adult, and my smile is always something I’m self-conscious about because of a crooked tooth. So, yeah, I’m glad for her. She needed it so bad.

~~*~~

No baby yet, obviously. I keep telling Jes to do jumping jacks or something so we can get the show on the road, but she’s not listening. *shrug*

And, don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Master is getting excited/giddy. I knew he would. He is so going to fall hard for this kid.

~~*~~

I am so not amused by the Michael Jackson jokes.

Unfortunately, Master and the kids are hella amused so I’m subjected to them several times a day.

I loved him. He was my first (and only!) celebrity crush.

I wonder if my Thriller album will be worth anything now? It’s the original album, bought when it was first released, when I was but a wee teenager and it’s in mint condition!

Offers?

Kidding. Y’all ain’t getting it. I spent too much time kissing that middle fold out pic.

~~*~~

I’m off to get chores done before the running starts.

I wonder, since we’re going with the whole parent/child thing, if I can put in for getting an allowance for doing chores.

Master… or Dad?

Recently I got a little snippy with Master and while it was more pms-fueled than anything else, it has left me wondering about something.

What happened was, for a couple of nights in a row, he told me it was time to go to bed.

Which, you know, whatever. He gets to tell me what to do, right?

Except, on that third night I stood there with my hands on my hips (”bitch wings” those are called, btw) and snapped that I am perfectly capable of telling time and that I hadn’t come into this (”this” being an M/s relationship) to get a new Daddy to tell me what time to go to bed.

That I already have a Dad. And that I’m far too old to have a bedtime.

Now, he’s been telling me when to go to bed for years, so this isn’t a new quirk of his. Why I suddenly balked at being treated like a child, or why I suddenly SAW it as being treated like a child as opposed to being controlled, I have no idea.

Pms makes a handy scapegoat, but if it were only pms, the irritation over it would have faded the minute I started to bleed. It hasn’t though.

Well, I’m not irritated anymore so much as I’m questioning what IS the difference, or is there one at all, between repeating my childhood with it’s various rules and restrictions, and submission in a bdsm sense? Have I merely found myself a new parental figure?

Is becoming a slave synoymous with being childlike?

When do rules become less Master-slave oriented and more parent-child? Or is it simply a matter of perspective?

For whatever reason, though I’m no less interested and dedicated to being a slave and obeying rules, I’m bristling at being treated like a child, and yet, I’m not able to put my finger on the difference.

When it changed. Why it changed. HAS it changed.

Maybe I’ve changed.

Maybe nothing changed and I just had a bad day.

Maybe it’s just that so much of what we do anymore is service oriented that control is stifling. It chafed me.

I dunno. What do you all think? Does it feel childlike to you to have rules to follow, especially rules that mirror your typical parent-child rules? Would you balk at a bedtime?

Replies

I can’t reply individually right now so Imma cheat and do it this way.

First, no, no baby yet. She did have a doc appt. though and he didn’t seem to think she was ready so I’m not holding my breath yet.

She is going to try breastfeeding. She is on WIC (JUST got on it. Can I get a great big hellelujah?! Master’s wallet just sighed in relief.)

Thank you all for your words of comfort. Some in particular are sticking with me. Take care of HER so she can take care of the baby. Yes. Thank you. I can do that. I can be mom to her and that’ll leave grandma for babygirl.

On to the birth control.

I have three packs of Yaz. Spank is at the end of August. I’ll have a period within the next week to 10 days, have another at the end of July and another at the end of August.

But! I had no idea doctors would help you skip a period. I figured they’d balk at the idea of messing with it. So I’m gonna call because, dammit, I am not going to be bleeding at Spank. I refuse!

Thanks!

Now back to work.. boo.

It’s Not Nice To Mess With Mother Nature

By my calculations, I will absolutely be smack dab in the middle of my period when we go to Spankfest.

Where Master expects me to be naked and he claims he’s going to fuck me on a picnic table.

I refuse to submit to this. Though Master IS sometimes called Motherfucker, Mother Nature is NOT my dom. Or domme. Whatever.

And I’m not going to take this lying down! Or standing up with blood running down my leg at Spankfest!

I am going to mess with Mother Nature- if you all can help me, that is.

I have three unopened packs of birth control pills. They were Jes’s. (hence the reason I’m soon to be a granny. They are unopened. ~eye roll~)

Soooo… I know there is a way to manipulate your cycle with pills. How does one do this? I just need to delay it for about a week.

Help?

Ready or not…

Jes and I were sitting on the couch watching America’s Got Talent (which should be changed to America’s Got Sympathy, cuz, talent or not, if you have a good sob story, are under the age of 10 or are petite and can lift up your 240lb hubby, we’re putting ya through, dammit.) when all of a sudden, she turns to stare at me, eyes wide.

“Next Saturday is July 4th!” she exclaimed, panic playing in her voice.

I had to think a minute. Where the fuck did June go?? But, indeed, next Saturday is July 4th. Her due date.

“You aren’t necessarily going to have her on that day.” I explained for the 15th (or so) time. “You could go a week or two past that. Or, you could have her tomorrow!”

“I know.” she said, looking down. She was quiet a minute and then she spoke softly to her hands. “I’m not ready.”

I bit back such supportive comments as ‘Gee, you should have thought of that about nine months ago!’ and ‘Too bad, chicka!’ I looked at her and realized that in spite of her gruff exterior and the huge chip that seems to be in permanent residence on her shoulder, she is just a terrified child.

So instead of my usual sarcasm, I patted her belly and smiled at her. “I don’t think any first-time mother is ever ready. It’s scary and it’s hard, but you’re not alone.”

She nodded and took a deep breath, blowing it out. “Physically I’m ready.” she laughed. “Kid is squishing my lungs.”

She really is getting quite uncomfortable; back pain, swollen ankles, can’t sleep, peeing every 30 minutes, Braxton-Hicks contraction– the list is endless– and oh-so-familiar to anyone who has ever been pregnant. She’s also very self-conscious about how big she is. For someone who once worked at being skinny and attractive, she feels like a, well, like a land-whale.

Just the other day, she was telling me how different it is when boys look at her now. How, when they can just see her face, they look interested- until the rest of her comes into view, and then they grimace or turn away or elbow their buddy.

That’s hard on a girl’s self-esteem. No amount of reassurance that your figure will come back is believable when you can’t see your toes and you’re seeing stretch marks appear by the day. 17 is an awfully young age to watch your looks change forever.

I told her boys are dumb.

Speaking of dumb boys, over the last couple of months, though she’s remained on friendly terms with the baby-daddy, and is still just as determined to have him be a part of the baby’s life, she’s seen what an absolute useless source of support he’s going to be. Time and distance leads to perspective, and because his other baby was born about 6 months ago and she’s seen how he is as a father (and I use that term loosely), she’s pretty well written him off as being useful. When I ask her what she sees in her future regarding him and a possible relationship, she very matter of factly shakes her head. “No. I don’t even like him anymore. He’s not very nice and he treats his girlfriends like crap. I don’t want that.”

So, yay for progress?

(Though let’s not get too excited about that progress. She’s still sleeping with him when she can. Apparently, he is just THAT good. Oy. Is she my daughter or what??)

Anyway, her nerves are on edge. She’s scared. We’ve gone over and over and over my birthing stories. She hangs on every single detail, she’s watched youtube videos of births, she’s googled, she’s read books- and none of that is going to matter a whit when she starts having contractions.

And she, especially, is so much not into pain. Of any sort. She’s never handled it well and as her mother, like any mother when they see their kid hurting, I just ache for what I know she’s in for. They don’t call it labor for nothing.

“I’ve never even held a newborn before.” she told me that night as we sat on the couch. “I don’t know how to change a diaper, I don’t know how to make a bottle. I don’t know what to do when she cries. I don’t know anything.”

This wasn’t the time to detail for her my own fears. Because as she laid out how much she’s going to be relying on me to show her and teach her, I’m slightly panicked that I won’t remember any of it myself.

But beyond being afraid that I won’t remember the details of baby care, is being afraid to care too much. Of being afraid that the lines are going to blur. I’m going to be too involved. By necessity I’ll be closer in role to Mom than Grandma.

I remember when I first divorced my kids’ father and had to swallow my pride and move back to my parent’s house with my kids.

I remember how my mother was unable to maintain the boundary between grandparent and parent. She, from the second I came in the door, assumed the motherly role. She took over, pushing me off to work, pushing me away.

I remember trying to bring it up. To tell her that she’s overstepping her boundaries, that the kids were mine and not hers, that I was Mom.

And, I remember how incensed that made her. How she’d scream “So! What is it we’re supposed to do here, Tess? Are we just supposed to do all this stuff for you and help you out and NOT have any say in things? Is that what you expect?”

While inside I’d be screaming back, “Yes. Jesus Christ, yes. That is *exactly* what I expect!” She would end her little rant with “Because if that’s what you expect, then you can just move on out. Right now.”

If I had other living options, I wouldn’t have been living *there*. So I said nothing and I watched as my kids became more her’s than mine.

Now, I find myself beginning the same journey my mother had; grandparenting in the parenting role. And I can see, I can understand much better, what she was thinking when she said those words to me. How DO you help without trying to control?

But I also remember how *I* felt, too. Helpless and powerless and frustrated and angry and resentful and and and… all because I needed help.

Needing help is not synonymous with helpless. I needed assistance, I didn’t need someone to take over. Jes will need help, a lot more than even I did back then, but I will not, I cannot, take over.

I’m getting a glimpse of how hard that is going to be. I am so in love with this baby I’ve never seen. I don’t know if I can maintain the distance I’m going to need.

Sometimes I’m envious of those grandparents who are able to experience this the “right” way. Where baby will not be in their house 24 hours a day, they can babysit for a night or a day, visit, and then go home. By sheer physical location, the appropriate boundaries are in place already.

I’m envious of those who can shop for a cute outfit for their new grandbaby without having to think also of the coming costs of formula and diapers. Without having to choose between that completely unnecessary-but-darling pink lace bonnet and the necessary new bottle nipples. I should be buying the cute stuff and Mommy should be buying the necessities.

Instead, I’m thrust into the parenting responsibilites- without the parenting rights.

Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. They’re already blurring.

Scolded

I had this other post I was going to make but then Master scolded me this morning so now I’m all bummed.

I hate it when he scolds me in that perfectly reasonable and calm tone of voice and he’s right in what he’s saying and there is nothing I can say in my defense because I know he’s right.

I feel about 2 inches tall.

~cunt

I’m in yer underwear, stealin’ yer man.

Remember that post I made about Master’s “new girlfriend” that was really the cat? (Hee. And remember that chic who got all pissed off that it was a joke? Toooo funny!)

Anyway, she (the cat) is still super attached to Master. (Which still ticks me off since I’m the one who rescued her scrawny ass and who feeds her and who scoops her little cat turds and and and…)

Anyway, I was looking through some pictures for Foreign Object week over at Fet and I found this one. Now tell me this cat doesn’t have a strange obsession with mah Man? Srsly. If she could, I bet she’d be boiling a bunny on my stove.

Do you see that death glare!!? I couldn’t make this shit up! I lock her out of the bedroom at night. *nods*

We had a pretty good weekend. Saturday, we went out in the boat again. For Father’s Day, Master got a little boat motor (so I don’t have to row anymore. Yay!) and we went out into the Big Water.

That’s some scary shit. I did okay. In fact, I did better than okay. But still. That’s some scary fucking shit!

And just as I was all calm and peering over the side, this monster came swimming out from under the boat and scared the pee-waddins outta me.

We were out for a couple of hours. Long enough to get a little sunburn and to catch the same fish twice. (Fer real. It still had my hook stuck in its lip from where he broke my line when I caught him the second time. We’ve decided there are only two fish in the entire lake. The one he caught and the one I caught twice. And a turtle. The End.)

But here’s my guy, chillin’. Chillin’ and fishin’. Such a hard life, isn’t it?

Saturday evening we grilled out some brats and had some friends over. We pretty much spent the entire time talking about Spankfest. (Have you all made your travel plans? Registration for the August dates is open now! I fully expect to see you there. ~stern look~ )

I tell ya, by the end of the night, I was squirming and wondering if I really really want to take Master out in public. He kept looking at me with that ‘bug under the microscope’ look. It didn’t help that the Dom Friend kept saying “You can do anything to her. AN-NEEE-THING. Whatever you want! Anything!”

And I’m in my head, like,.. Dude! Shhhhh! lol

Then I totally had a “That is so not fair!” epiphany.

Master? Is never ever ever undressed in any capacity when we are at play parties or whatever. Me? Naked as a jaybird. Him? Dressed from head to toe.

So, I’ve decided that the man has body issues. *nods* My armchair psychology at it’s best! Then I’m all well fuck, so do I!!

Now I KNOW, without a single doubt, that I’ll be naked for most, if not all, of the entirety of our camping at Spank.

Totally not fair.

It’s not like I haven’t plastered his cock enough times here that everyone and their mother hasn’t already seen it, but if he so much as unzips his britches at Spank, I’ll be surprised.

Personally, I’d like to be fucked on the picnic table, please.

Just putting a request out there for his consideration.

No pressure!

(Of course, this morning, he jabs me in the arm and says “As your Master I command you to NOT be on your period for Spank! So, you know, I WILL BE because he just DARED my uterus! Stoopid stoopid man! Challenging the girl-bits! They just never learn. *shakes head*)

So anyway, that was Saturday.

Sunday was weird. We were both really really tired. So we did nothing much of anything. We napped. We sat. We read. We talked. We napped.

We ate junk because I didn’t wanna cook.

We went to bed.

I had wanted to get busy on the garden buckets but there was just no energy to be found anywhere. I plan on working on them today, though. If I don’t do it soon, I might as well kiss that plan goodbye too!

I just need a kick in the ass.

Volunteers?

Too bad! You’ll have to come to Spank and then I’ll let ya.

~cunt

Tut

From the Universe:

If you can understand, dear Tess, that the 3 greatest obstacles between you and the life of your wildest dreams are actually imaginary, a product of your mind alone, I do believe we’ll blow the wheels clear off this popsicle stand named Jes, Am and B-man.

The Universe stands corrected.

~cunt

Bits- and not the pink ones.

* Garlic chicken pizza for breakfast is the breakfast of Gods. (Or fat slaves who are too lazy to make anything else.) (Say! How IS that diet going anyway? It’s not. Hush.)

* We have swarms and swarms of dragonflies up here. I used to hate them cuz they’re big and buzzy and fly at your face. But then I found out they eat mosquitoes. I <3 dragonflies.

* I have a mosquito bite on the bottom of my foot.

* I have another one on my ASS.

* It is, apparently, not sexy to hop around while scratching the bottom of your foot, with your other hand stuffed down the back of your britches scratching your ass. Who knew?

* The Rent-a-pup (ty for the term) has taken to humping Dracula’s (black kitty) leg. They are both fixed, and both male. Interspecies homosexual sex is cute.

* Obviously, they are no longer terrified of the pup. Now they yawn in his yapping little face.

* I ruined the cat’s “bird channel” by creating our back deck oasis. So, they’ve lovingly replaced bird watching with all-night mole hunts. I’m gifted every morning with at least one or two dead moles graciously left outside the sliding door. As much as I appreciate the offering, dead rodents were not on the list for “create oasis-like atmosphere”.

* I do not like the name Jes has picked out for her baby. Would it be terrible if I called her something completely different? Yes? Damn.

* The boy child had money to spend and bought himself some super-souped amp for his guitar. His bedroom shares a wall with Jes’s bedroom- the wall the crib is on. I anticipate some serious fights in the near future.

* I caused forking drama. Now I haz a forking sad.