Endless Soup and Bread and the fine art of Noticing

In the spirit of moving on, first the soup and bread-

Cheesy Potato Soup

8 to 10 cups of chicken broth (my preference is Better Than Bouillon)
2 carrots, 2 stalks of celery, 1 small onion- diced.
About 10 or so potatoes, diced
Whatever seasonings float your soupy boat (garlic, s&p, bay leaves, parsley, etc.)

Simmer in a large dutch oven until vegetables are tender.

In a separate pot, make a white sauce with 4 tbsp butter, 4 tbsp flour and 2 cups of milk. When thickened, add in 2 to 4 cups of cheese (I like to do equal amounts mild and sharp cheddar). Add cheese sauce to soup, stir until well combined.

If desired, garnish servings with crumbled bacon and/or green onions. Om nom!

This makes a pretty good sized amount of soup. Fills my dutch oven right to the top! And! It’s totally fattening. Ask me how much I care.

French Bread

(I use my breadmaker because, well, because I have one. And it’s easy.)

2lb loaf

1 1/3 cups warm water
2 tsp butter, softened
4 cups bread flour
5 tsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp salt
4 tsp bread machine yeast

Set it and forget it!

Eat both the soup and the bread together. Because it’s delicious.

~~*~~

On to noticing.

Remember that post I made a couple of years ago about how Master likes his closet and drawers to be organized?

Well. Over the last couple of months, I’d let it slide. I was just putting the clothes away in no order whatsoever.

When he didn’t say anything, I figured he’d lost interest in that OCD-level of clothes organization. That’s not an unreasonable conclusion to come to. He loses interest in a lot of things. Sometimes he neglects to inform me that he’s lost interest.

In other words, I wasn’t doing it to test him or anything. It was just one of those things, you know? We get busy and little things start to slide. It wasn’t a purposeful act of disobedience, really. Really really.

Anyway. The other day he said something about it. He was digging through his closet for something and pointed out to me how nothing was where it was supposed to be. The T-shirts were mixed with the sweatshirts and the long-sleeved button downs were rubbing the short sleeves of the Polos, and oh! Teh Horror! (grins)

All I said was that it was nice to be noticed.

Not a lot of things get noticed around here these days, as you can imagine.

The thing about me is that I don’t need, want, or even like the good things to be noticed. You know what I mean? I wouldn’t like for him to praise me or pat me on the head every time he opens his closet and sees the clothes are all arranged perfectly.

That should be the expectation, right? That I’m doing what he tells me to do. It shouldn’t be noticed at all.

What makes an impact on me is when he notices that I’m NOT doing what he expects. It’s like a little mental slavery hug when he points something out that I’ve done wrong. Pointing out what I do right, or not noticing either way, makes me drop the ball.

I react far more positively internally to “You could have vacuumed more thoroughly today, cunt” than I do to “The house looks nice, snooks”.

Of course, all of this comes with the caveat that I should do what I know I’m supposed to do anyway and he shouldn’t have to do anything that makes it easier or better for me. Blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. And I should and he shouldn’t. BUT. I’m just sayin’ how it works for me in case he was of a mind to do it my way.

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“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”

For the question of Can i divorce my child(ren)?, the interwebz best answers are:

Kick them out, call the recruiter, sell the place and go on vacation, keep a PO for mail and tell the kids you’ll be in the Caribbean or the far east, write if you need something,

Tempting. So very tempting.

No advice on what to do with the grandkids, though. Hmmph.

So. Jes is pregnant. Again.

I had to blurt that out there. It’s painful to say.

The last time I had to deliver that news, and the next long while following, almost broke us. Do you remember? I do. Vividly. My fears and reluctance to tell him again were justified I think. It was brutal the last time.

I’ve had about 2 weeks to sit with this news. Some of the shock has worn off, most of that eased considerably by how well Master took the news.

She’s not far along. A month, 6 weeks perhaps. Abortion is out, she’s as pro-life as I am. She did mention adoption but I’m sure that was thrown in there in an attempt to soften the blow when she told me. I don’t believe for a second that she’s going to give up her baby (even if she should). I simply told her that the decision to either terminate, adopt, or keep it was between her and the father.

The father is Babygirl’s father. (Or so she says) That really should be a good thing, right? *At least* they have the same dad. Hahaha! It’s soooooooooo not.

Not only does Babygirl already have a half-sister courtesy of her daddy’s Super Sperm (older by a whopping 6 months. Do the math, people.), a third half-sibling from another girl is due in May.

So, here we have Mr. I-Have-Strong-Swimmers, with 2 kids already and a 3rd on the way, and he has unprotected sex AGAIN? He’s a dumbass. He’s a fucking stupid motherfucker who deserves to spend the next 18 years working for nothing to pay child support for FOUR FUCKING KIDS IN 3 YEARS BY 3 DIFFERENT WOMEN. And not a one of them over the age of 21. Neither is HE. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

As is Jes. STUPID. What the fuck is SHE thinking? The boy hasn’t done fuck-all to help her with Babygirl. He didn’t even show up for the birth, ffs. Let’s see. Was he here for: Formula? No. Diapers? No. Middle of the night feedings? No. Teething? No. Cranky baby? No. Visitation? No. Child support? No. Potty training? No. Bottle breaking? No. Birthday parties? No. Christmas? NO.

So let’s have another one! Whee!

Fucking stupid.

It’s been what, 5 weeks or so since she asked me to take guardianship of Babygirl? (Which, by the way, she’s since changed her mind about. Again.) Knowing that she was struggling with the kid she has she runs off to have unprotected sex? AGAIN?

I cannot comprehend the stupid. From all parties.

Including me! I’m stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Do we know why she didn’t fully learn the consequences of having unprotected sex, peanut gallery? Oh, come on now. Don’t mince your words. This is me you’re talking to. I can take it.

Here, I’ll help you out.

The reason she was careless AGAIN is because she never raised her first kid. I did. She didn’t learn anything. She didn’t have to worry about money, diapers, formula, child care, or the millions of other reasons why SMART people insist on using protection when they’re fertile.

Because I did it for her.

Fuck me. I’d shoot myself if I have a clue where M keeps the ammo.

~glares at the wall and hyperventilates for awhile~

But.

I had a tiny moment of clarity just the other day. Seriously. I was in the kitchen doing some domestic something-or-other, and Jes was on the couch, and I was all frowny-faced, worry-lined, shoulder-slumped when all of a sudden I jerked my head up, whipped around to point my stirring spoon at her and said:

“You are not 16 anymore. THAT? ~waving the spoon in the direction of her stomach~ ain’t my problem. You are TWENTY. You’re an ADULT. This is your family, your children, your life. Not mine.”

And then I smiled.

Because it’s true.

At 16, her problems were my problems. At 20? Not so much.

Here’s what I spent the last 2 weeks coming to realize.

With her–it’s never going to stop. Never. She’s going to exist from one crisis to the next. For YEARS. Maybe for forever. Whether that’s her illness or just her, I can’t say.

No matter how much I do for her, no matter how much I help her solve one problem, she’s going to seek out another one. ON PURPOSE.

(I do apologize for the frequent cap-lock typing. I know it’s irritating. But I’m irritable.)

Being willing to take on one child was one thing. But when does it stop? How do I take in one and not the other, if it comes to that? What if there is a third, God forbid? Taking on two or….more…. is not possible. It’s just not. Not for him.

I have to limit how much of me can be dragged into her issues. I maybe should have done it a long ass time ago, but I’ll excuse that away. I had valid reasons (to me) for it.

I know I’ve said some of this before. Talked all big and tough. But now we’re moving into different territory.

If I don’t set up the boundaries she’s going to ruin me. And, well, I’m owned and I’m not mine-or hers-to destroy.

So, I’m divorcing myself from her problems.

My sympathies are pretty nil.

Except for how this is going to affect Babygirl. She has all my sympathies. The baby-on-the-way isn’t real to me yet, but I already have sympathies for it, too.

I can’t save them.

That’s really the bottom line, and the hardest part to put to rest. I can’t save them. Not Jes, not Babygirl, and not NewBaby. Can’t.

Divorced. And I’m not fighting for custody.

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Escapism, Underestimation and Divorce

Every time I’ve been allowed to sit down in front of the computer, when I’ve had to choose whether to spend my time blogging, reading, Facebooking or Fetlifing- I’ve instead chosen to escape into Grey’s Anatomy, or whatever other drama-ridden show I can find on Hulu.

Do you know why? Because they have more drama than I do! I don’t care if it’s fake, made-up drama. Anything to distract me from my own drama.

I don’t want to talk about how we do “this thing we do” over on Fet. I’m over the judgement, the catty behavior, the snarking and the insulting. Half the people there are online-only, or part-timers, or LDR. They’re all full of plans and dreams and ideas of what it’s going to be. So sure of their plans that they can’t even entertain the idea of it being anything other than what they lie in bed dreaming it to be.

I don’t know anybody who made the transition from LDR/online/part-time to 24/7 and didn’t have to adjust their plans to accommodate the issues of real life.

I’m cynical.

I can’t read any more blathering bullshit and posturing from those who think they’ll be the ones who avoid that pitfall because they believe they have some inside line, some secret knowledge that the rest of us didn’t have. The worst of it coming from those who have never even done this, those poor misguided saps.

I can’t read any more of the bewildered pain from people who made the leap and had their dreams shattered when this “thing we do” ended up being something entirely more difficult and altered in real life than it was on the weekends or through the monitor.

I can’t talk any more about the adjustments and compromises we made as a couple to create this workable version of O/p with people who sit in judgement of how we do it when they aren’t doing it at all.

I’m jaded.

Master and I aren’t who we were 8 years ago. 5 years ago. 3 years ago. “This thing we do” is a shell of its former structure, barely recognizable from where we started. I’m not the same person, nor is he, all in spite of the plans and the determination to create the vision of our fantasies.

Because life is what happens while you are busy making other plans, don’t cha know.

Jobs and finances. Kids. College. Illness. Family. Growth. Change. It all comes no matter how far in the sand you try and bury your head. It’s those people who are set in stone who don’t make it, who can’t make this work. Those people so dead set on what their fantasy is going to become that they cant– won’t– tweak and adjust anything, spending year after year alone, doing nothing more than congratulating themselves on refusing to settle, refusing to compromise, refusing to give, waiting for the ever-elusive Perfect.

What we have? Is not perfect. So very not perfect.

We defy the rules laid out for Owner and property, for Master and slave. We don’t fit. We don’t belong.

He’s fun, and romantic. He’s my friend, my best friend. He changes rules when they don’t work- even if the only person they aren’t working for is me. He values my feelings. He loves me.

He fixed me. He repaired my broken psyche, my frozen feelings, my stunted emotional abilities. Even though doing so changed who I am, altered my need for the darker things, and compromised my desire to fulfill some of his darkness, he let that go. For me. For me.

How do I repay him for this? By doubting his integrity. By betraying his faith in me.

I’ve also stayed away from Fet because I won’t talk the talk when I’m not walking the walk. I’d open the Fetlife page, see the many posts from people ‘doing it right’ and be flooded with guilt and shame, and close it out. I wasn’t walking the walk. So I couldn’t talk.

I needed to deliver some news to him and I didn’t want to. I sat on it for about a week, 5 days in fact, terrified out of my gourd that this was going to be it. This was going to be the last straw. This was going to be the end.

Yet, I had to tell him. HAD to. Property transparency and alla that. Plus, I was LYING, even if only by omission. Every time he asked me what was wrong and I replied that it was nothing. Every time he asked if there was anything he needed to know and I said no. Every time he looked at me with that direct, searching gaze and I averted my eyes, quickly changed the subject, trying to distract him.

I was stuck. My go-to person in times of trouble is him. When I need direction, when I need support, when I need advice, when I need anything… he’s my person (to steal from Grey’s).

I argued with myself. A lot. Berated myself. Cried. Fretted. Tried to examine my options for when he kicked me to the curb. If not because of the news, then surely because, with each passing day, I was damaging the core of our relationship.

Those options, by the way? Bleak. I don’t really have any good ones. I don’t have a job-or any marketable skills anymore. No continued education. I don’t have access to any money. I don’t have a car. Or a house. Or any furniture. I’m 41 years old, which is entirely too old to be moving back in with Mom and Dad (not to mention that my mother and I are currently not speaking to each other, but that’s another entry).

Dependency has fingers that run deep, in all walks. But fuck me if practical dependency isn’t where the real power lies.

So I explored those non-existent options. I kicked myself for being horrible property who wasn’t being transparent. I lectured myself on how this is not the kind of relationship we have. I don’t GET TO hide things from him. We don’t have a relationship based on dishonesty.

“Respect, Discipline, Honesty, Integrity, Focus, Strength, Passion, Faith”. Those are the words HE chose. That’s the synopsis of our relationship. That’s what he wants from me- and more than that, that’s what he gives me.

So great. Now I have guilt. Guilt and fear. Betrayal. I was betraying his expectations. Betraying all of the work he’d put into me. Not living up to the ideal he’d instilled in me for how his property was supposed to behave.

I underestimate him all the time. I underestimated him for 5 days in a row before I couldn’t take it anymore. I was convinced he was going to leave me when I finally sat down to spill it, but I chose that possibility over continuing to feel like I was betraying him.

I knew I could end up unowned. I knew it’d be well within reason. And I still couldn’t live another day feeling like I was violating those 8 chosen words. Respect, Discipline, Honesty, Integrity, Focus, Strength, Passion, Faith.

I disrespected his rule.
I was undisciplined.
I wasn’t honest.
I compromised the integrity of his rule.
I didn’t focus on his ownership.
I was weak, and
I showed indifference to his rule.
I didn’t have faith in him.

I was Dead (Wo)Man Walking when I finally made my shameful way to sit in front of him. I was all full of “I hope’s” and “Please don’t's” and “I can’t's”…

I think I’ve spent the last 8 years waiting for him to toss me away, waiting for the day he wakes up from whatever delusional dream he’s been living in, sees what he’s gotten himself into and disappears for bigger and better things.

How shameful is that, huh?

I underestimate him.

So very shameful.

The reason I’m so easily pulled into the fantasy world of Grey’s Anatomy is because I identify so readily with the unworthy, broken persona of the main character. I get it. I get that tendency to self-sabotage.

I prepared myself for worst-case scenario. What I got was a nod. An “I know.” Not really even a change of expression.

Even though he’s shown me time and time again that he has the ability to roll with the punches, to adjust us and himself to fit with life and doesn’t expect life to fit with his fantasy, I still sat there, ready to follow up my news with obeying the order to pack up and leave.

I underestimated his integrity. His strength, his focus, his passion, his everything. His love, his commitment. My worth.

He hates when I do that. I know he does.

I don’t know if there are going to be consequences for the hiding and the secrecy and the underestimation. Or for the disrespect, the indifference, the weakness, the… seemingly unending list of failings. I don’t know. I can’t predict him.

Maybe it’s enough that I see the error of my ways?

Probably not, but a girl can dream.

As to the ‘divorce’ part of the title:

We are not divorcing. We are fine. He’s… good. He’s okay. That was the underestimation part.

I’m divorcing my daughter, though. More on that later.

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¡Feliz cumpleaños!

M took me shopping for my birthday presents. I got a new blender, with the food processor and smoothie maker attachments (I’ve been rocking out the smoothies lately. Om nom.) to go with it. I also got an immersion blender because I broke mine; and the new Weight Watchers cookbook.

My parents got me a Robo Stir, and a food chopper thing. And a pair of yoga pants.

I am seriously in kitchen gadget heaven. The only other thing I can think of that is a must-have is a bigger George Foreman grill. The one with removable plates. Yes, indeed. I will then be a happy(er) kitchen camper.

~~*~~

There’s really not much else to talk about. Nothing has changed with any of the kids since the last time I yammered on about them. Things with M and I just keep rolling on. Nothing new, nothing exciting.

For the last couple of weeks (maybe months, even) I haven’t had much interest in talking about the intricacies of bdsm or about my relationship. It’s working–the bdsm and the relationship, I mean. Sooo.. what’s there to talk about?

I’ve also been really, really, REALLY unconcerned with housework. I can’t seem to work up any give-a-fuck about cleaning. I think I’ve given up on it. It’s like that old saying “Cleaning the house before the kids stop growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing.” When it stops snowing, I’ll clean. There.

Now to get Master to see it my way…

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Potty Training my pals

Jack and Jill stopped by last night. They were in the neighborhood and it was good to see them. It’s been about a month or so.

A little about Jill: She’s eensy-weensy. She’s tiny. She’s fun-sized. I don’t know her exact height, but I’m only 5’4″ and when I stand next to her I feel like an Amazon woman.

I suppose she’s accustomed to people treating her like a child because she’s child-sized, right?

However.

I would never have MADE her use Babygirl’s miniature toilet seat when she needed to use the bathroom.

But she did.

I’ve no doubt she fit on it just fine, too, lol.

If she’d have stuck around I’d have given her a sticker, too. Haha!

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I scream, you scream, we all scream for- Well, except me.

He sent me out to the kitchen to fix him a bowl of ice cream.

Creamy french vanilla ice cream, in perfect rounded scoops, very ice cream parlor-esque, mounded up in a white china bowl.

“Put some chocolate on it, if we have any.” He called out from the living room.

We had some. Of course we did. Hershey’s syrup. Mmmm… chocolate… So no, it’s not Godiva. Deprived chocolate addicts aren’t choosy. If a starving man can eat a roach, I can certainly lower myself to snarfing on some Hershey’s chocolate syrup.

A little drip missed and started down the outside of the bowl. Swiping it with my finger, I licked it off. I shouldn’t have. It only ramped up the craving.

“Thanks, cunt.” He said dismissively, straining to see around me when I inadvertently stepped between his face and the television as I handed him the bowl. When I didn’t move he cut his eyes impatiently to the spot on the couch next to him. Message: Sit. Now.

Message received. Message obeyed.

I picked up my glass of water from the end table and took a sip. A noisy sip. A noisy, slurpy little-kid-type sip, designed to say Hey! Ice cream hogger! Remember me! Unfortunately, it was drowned out by the latest explosion of the Bomb Squad–or whatever Dick-Flick he had playing on the tv. Foiled!

I set the water glass on the coffee table in front of us, in plain sight, with a little thump and a little slosh and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He slurped up chocolate-covered ice cream.

I wiped up the slosh. Hmmph.

Inside I had a snivel. Was he really going to eat that giant, gooey, gloppy, delicious-looking bowl of ice cream right in fucking front of me and not even give me a BITE??

I took another drink to quiet the rumble in mah tummy. And then smiled secretly to myself. Of course he wouldn’t do that! He’d give me the last bite, I bet. And probably rib me a little about the diet he had me on or something. He’s so funny!

Grinning, I drank more water and settled back to wait; mouth watering, tummy grumbling, saliva squirting waiting. No problem. I got this. Clever dom wasn’t so clever. I know him too well. Smug cunt was smug.

My attention moved elsewhere for the time being; it was a big bowl. I had time to kill.

Fet. Facebook. Email. Recipes.

The tell-tale sound of a spoon scraping the bottom of a china bowl pulled my attention back and I turned, mouth opening, anticipating that last bite–only to watch the spoon, dripping with chocolate and melted ice cream poking into his mouth. “MmmmM!” he moaned, making a production of licking the spoon, handle and all. “That was gooOOOood, cunt.” Then he got up, carried the bowl to the sink and ran water into it, rinsing away even the clinging hope of licking the bowl.

Sauntering off down the hall he called back, “How’s that water?”

After I’d swallowed the butthurt (and more water), I had to chuckle in appreciation. Fucking sadist. Whoever said BDSM was about whips and paddles has never been to my house.

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Menu

1) Cajun Tilapia fillets with a creamy dill sauce (made with plain yogurt and light mayo); brown rice; steamed green beans

2) Honey-mustard glazed chicken breasts; roasted acorn squash; peas

3) Meatless spinach and mushroom manicotti; normandy-blend vegetables

4) Homemade pepperoni pizza for them (leftover spinach and mushroom pizza for me) on whole wheat crust; avocado, tomato, and romaine salad

5) Black Bean and Chicken Chilaquiles; spanish rice.

6) Butternut Squash Soup; turkey pesto panini (? Maybe. I’m undecided on that.)

7) ?? Probably some concoction with leftovers and some corn bread.

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lulz

He rang in the new year while counting us down to simultaneous orgasms. He is so much fun, srsly.

Of course, I was stuffed under the desk oblivious to the time but concentrating on his countdown to my own celebration (snicker).

I was (am still, haha) a bit shnockered, so he stuffed me under there with a pile of pillows to prop up the parts of me that I was too inebriated to prop up myself for him. See how caring he is? All loving and romantic and shit.

All in all, not a bad new beginning.

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Soup

(cross-posted to Domestic Servitude and stolen from Slave 2.0)

Slow Cooker Ham and Bean Soup

A meaty ham bone or ham hock or about 2 cups diced ham (the ham bone really adds flavor though!)
16oz northern beans
½ large onion diced
2 to 3 stalks celery, sliced
8 cups low sodium chicken broth
2 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled
2 Tbsp minced garlic
2 Bay leaves
½ tsp thyme

Soak the beans overnight in cold water. In the morning, rinse and place in the bottom of a crock pot. Place the ham bone on top of beans. Dump in the rest of ingredients and cook on low for 6 to 8 hours (depending on your cooker’s cooking time. It could take up to 8 to 10, but mine was done in 6) until the beans are tender. Can be thickened with a little cornstarch and water, if you like a more stew-like consistency.

Plugging this into Calorie Counter’s recipe analysis, and roughly calculating that my slow cooker made about 12 cups and a serving size was about 2 cups of soup (as the main course of a meal, 2 cups sounded about right?), it gave me these nutrition facts:
Calories: 130
Total Fat: 3.7g
Saturated Fat: 1.1g
Trans Fat: 0.0g
Cholesterol:20mg
Sodium: 621mg
Total Carbohydrates: 15.4g
Dietary Fiber: 2.9g
Protein: 9.4g

~~*~~

Last night Master and I had a date night. We went out for dinner and then strolled the stores for the after-Christmas clearance sales. Then we came home, disappeared into the mancave with some beer and peanuts (penis!) and proceeded to get buzzed. And then we got tired and went to bed. haha. We were *supposed* to have sex but we’re old, so… sleep won out.

Jes and Babygirl have gone to visit BabyDaddy for his last few days of leave, so we’re enjoying a small break from that stress. I don’t worry too much about her when they go there because BabyDaddy is really good with Babygirl when he has her (too bad he seems to forget about her when she’s not in front of his face), plus they’re staying at his mother’s house so I know she’s being watched and cared for (though *obviously* not nearly as well as *I* do it, lol)

Oh, and, yes, Babygirl did have a UTI. She’s being treated now.

Re: his military insurance: She is supposed to be covered; there’s been the matter of her parents getting their shit together enough to gather the proper paperwork, plus some stipulation that Babygirl needed to be present at the recruiter(??) (which sounds completely odd to me. What if your child lived in another state? Like, gee, Babygirl does.) So whatever. Who knows. Probably Jes just figured Medicaid was easier as she was already on it. I spoke with Babydaddy and asked him to finish up the paperwork so she could be covered so we’ll see what happens.

Re: Am’s job/college/etc.: I’m taking your comments to heart and I’m inclined to agree. Thanks.

Re: Jes’s diagnosis: The BPD will make things harder for her, but I’m not using it as an excuse for everything. Her inability (or unwillingness) to be a parent to Babygirl may or may not be related to the BPD. She may have been this way as a teen parent without the BPD, we’ll never know. We are cracking down on what we’re willing to put up with from her, including the stipulation that if she continues on this path of unemployment/partying/ignoring her responsibilities/skipping therapy, we are going to kick her out and if I have guardianship, Babygirl won’t be going with her. She understands our position, agreed to it, and here we are. Her group sessions start this month, and she’s attending her individual sessions (so far).

There’s a big part of me that thinks she’s not going to be able to cut back on the drinking and partying, even if she does manage to hold down a job and stay with her therapy.

But bah.. I’m tired of talking and thinking about her right now. They are elsewhere and, dammit, I’m on vacation.

~~*~~

So what are you all up to for New Year’s? We ain’t doing shit. We never chance the crazy drivers on New Year’s Eve, plus there’s supposed to be a snow storm heading this way later tonight. We’ve got some drinks, some movies, and some plans to have sex. Perhaps not in that order though.

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Dump

I am so confused on what to do about this guardianship business. I can’t get Jes to give me straight answers, she talks one way and acts another. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do or if it’ll just push her further down the wrong path. I can’t shake the feeling that she’ll use it as her excuse to not have to change/get better and I don’t want to hand her that on a silver platter, but then I come back to the bottom line being Babygirl’s well-being. But then if I’m only focused on Babygirl’s well-being, am I abandoning Jes’s well-being? And should I or shouldn’t I? She *is* 20 years old, after all. And yet– she’s *only* 20 years old. I didn’t have it together at 20, and I didn’t have the added pressure of a kid, nor did I have the added difficulty of her diagnosis.

And this affects the smallest things. Babygirl comes to me first for (almost) everything. “I’m hungry, Beebaw”, “I’m thirsty, Beebaw”, “Beebaw, I gotta go potty!” I try and redirect her to her mom, even when I can tell that Jes is somewhere else mentally, or is irritated with Babygirl. Sometimes Jes takes care of it, sometimes she snaps out “I thought you were taking guardianship!” (translation: do the work for me. Right?), other times she ignores Babygirl because she’s ‘lost’ in her head/phone/tv, or she’s too tired, too hungover, too… insert whatever word you want because it fits, I’m sure, and I do it because the only one suffering is Babygirl.

I don’t know what to do about Am and her unemployment and college. She’s looking, but probably not as hard as she could. Do I ‘punish’ her by making her drop out until she has a job, which seems drastic, really. She’s doing well in her classes, not flunking, not partying, not skipping, not fucking off… and there is no denying the unemployment rates here. I don’t give her ‘extra’ money so I don’t feel like I’m overindulging her. We’re covering the tuition that her financial aid and loans don’t cover; the gas money to get to classes and back; and some of her food costs, but not all and certainly not what I would consider too much. She’s good about eating here before or after classes, and only needs to eat in town when she has classes all day and it’s cheaper to eat in town rather than drive home and then drive back.

But she seems pretty content with that arrangement and is probably not incredibly motivated to find a job. Am I just making things too easy on her? And shouldn’t I, anyway? She’s 18, attending a university full-time, and passing every class. Maybe my expectations are too high. Maybe they’re too low.

Gah. You can’t even imagine the circles my head is running in. Constantly. I’mma get an ulcer.

One place my head isn’t is on slavery. I’m barely staying afloat there. M has completely (mostly, almost) backed away from these decisions. He’s put his limitations out there, given me the go-ahead to decide what I want to do within those limitations, and has otherwise said he’ll support me in whatever decision I make. And I’m not suggesting he force any decision on me to make it easier because it won’t make it easier. It’ll make it harder. I appreciate that he’s giving me some breathing room, even if I am struggling with it.

I wish that I could separate all of that from the well-behaved, adoring, devoted slavegirl I usually am (Bwahaha!), but, no dice. Sometimes I feel like I spend all fucking day waiting on people and wouldn’t it be nice if at least one of the adults in this house could wait on themselves? Not very gracious, huh?

And don’t even get me started on my sex drive. Jesus. I want to want it, but fuck if life isn’t conspiring against me. Take yesterday for instance: It started out well enough. With the exception of going to the gym later, I had no plans to go anywhere or do anything else. I got busy right out of bed- I had supper loaded in the crock pot, four loads of laundry done, the bed stripped, the kitchen clean, had been outside shoveling snow and burning Christmas trash, and had taken the dog for a romp in the back-forty, all before 9am! Then I came in, got Jes up and moving and got Babygirl her breakfast and such, woke Am up to babysit and me and Jes went to the gym for an hour and a half. When we got back, Am said that Babygirl had been to the potty about 4 times in the time we were gone. Then Babygirl immediately wanted to go again and proceeded to scream that it hurt (“Too hot!”) and hop around grabbing her crotch. So a quick call to the doc and we got an appointment within the hour, and 30 minutes of that is just driving there, so pretty much rushing out the door. Of course Babygirl wouldn’t cooperate at the doc because by then she’d equated peeing with hurting and wouldn’t go at all, so we were sent off with a ‘script for a cream in case it was a yeast infection and a cup to catch a sample when she’d go.

Off to the store to fill the cream, with an increasingly unhappy and uncomfortable 2 year old. I’d have loved to have taken her home first, but again with the 30 minute drive/price of gas/multiple trips into town issue. I’d hoped to fill the prescription and, if possible, get that sample from her so we could take it right back to the lab before I left town.

Of course Jes’s medicaid wouldn’t cover the prescription but they’d put a call into the doctor to get a different kind. In the meantime we tried to keep Babygirl distracted by walking around the store while we waited. She kept grabbing her crotch and screaming that it hurt, that she had to go potty, but if we got within 2 feet of the toilet, she’d scream louder. At one point Jes and I were both in the stall with her trying to convince her to go while she screamed bloody murder. Finally, figuring that some concerned citizen was going to call CPS on us, I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

Naturally the doctor wasn’t returning the pharmacy’s phone call so I said to just forget it, I’d pay for the prescription. $30.00, whatever, let’s go. Babygirl continued to cry most of the way home, wet her pants (first time since being potty trained) and spent the next several hours hopping around crying about needing to go and refusing to go, while wetting herself in tiny amounts because she couldn’t hold it all in but was too afraid to go. Between distracting her with Toy Story and Dora episodes on the dvr, she ran from me to her mom, screaming, until she finally went to sleep at about 10pm.

We didn’t get back from the store until 5pm, I had to finish getting dinner ready, was trying to help a woefully unprepared Jes soothe Babygirl and in the middle of all this, Master rubs my crotch and wants to fuck.

SERIOUSLY? I think my head spun all the way around.

And this is the unplanned chaos that runs my life. Now today I’m going to have to go back into town to drop off the sample that we *finally* got, I have an appointment at 1 at the gym, and then I’ll probably have to go back into town later on to pick up the prescription that Babygirl undoubtedly needs. Unless they’ll call the ‘script into the local pharmacy, which would be sweet, but the only way to get Jes’s medicaid to cover it is to call it into the pharmacy that already has her medicaid on file. Because she lost her card and her numbers.

/brain dump

There now. I’ve made room for it to fill back up again.

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