I was sitting here yesterday patting myself on the back for having made Jes and the babies visit so amazingly wonderful because it really really was. I’m pretty sure we covered all of Babygirl’s favorite things to do a few times over. Jes got to spend some time with her friends, too, though she didn’t party nearly as much as I thought she might want to. She turned 21 while she was away and I thought for sure she’d want to go bar hopping with her friends, but she only went out one time. In fact, she commented that all of them were right where she left them- living for the weekend to get drunk. She wasn’t interested. (Seriously. Who is that girl and where did MY daughter go??)
Jes and I spent one day together, just the 2 of us. Am babysat for us and she and I went out to eat and went shopping. I didn’t even make it home for dinner. I did the same with Babygirl on a different day, just her and I. We ate lunch, went shopping (she loves to shop for shoes!), went to the children’s museum, just Bebaw and Babygirl.
Jes did take the girls down to visit the other grandma, too. Not that I think she deserves it, but… meh. I’m not bitter. I shared!
We ended up switching her return flight so she’d have a shorter and easier trip home. The original flight involved 3 airports and a total of 6 hours just in layovers. That’s a lot of sitting around trying to keep babies entertained. So we switched her to a flight out of a bigger airport and cut it down to just one connecting flight to catch with just a 1 hour layover. That meant driving 6 hours to the airport, but that ended up being close enough to my parents that they were able to meet us there. We left a day early and met at a hotel for the night so that was nice.
Plus it gave me an extra 3 days with my babies.
I ate, drank, lived, and breathed Jes-and-babies for 2 whole weeks. I had tunnel vision and while I made passable attempts at the laundry and the dishes and the cooking and such… I cared more about reading stories and playing Memory than I cared about dirty dishes in the sink.
And so. I really appreciate that Master allowed me all of that. Not just that he overlooked what I wasn’t getting done, but that he took a backseat and let me focus 100% of my energy on them. He let me shop and he let me do and he let me go and he never objected to any of it. Not even when switching tickets for convenience-sake was gonna cost an extra 300 bucks. *cringes*
I can pat myself on the back til the cows come home but the fact is without him financing it, and allowing it, there’d have been no visit at all.
I keep saying I hit the jackpot when I met him and it’s true. I don’t know why he chose me, I don’t know who or what I pleased to have gotten so lucky, but I am never not thankful for him.
Every time he walks out the door to go to work and I don’t have to go anywhere, every time he’s called out at 2am and I get to crawl back into that nice warm bed –that nice warm HUGE (HUGE!) bed with the pillow-top mattress and the super soft fuzzy blanket, any time I want to go to Amazon and buy my babygirls a little i-miss-you gift or when I want to have lunch with Am or take B-man driving and I get to pick which vehicle I want to take- I get to CHOOSE between vehicles(!!), or the fact that I’m surrounded by animals I adore and a big, beautiful, comfortable house that I love, and private land that has little Bambi’s wandering through the front yard in the spring, and bucks grazing, literally, right outside our windows…
Sometimes I wonder when I’m going to wake up, you know? This can’t be real. He can’t be doing this for ME. I’m not worthy!
But here I am. Unworthy, perhaps. Grateful, most assuredly.
It’s interesting to me how some people who read here focus only on the icky stuff- which isn’t even icky to me given that I LIKE it when he shoves his dirty cock down my throat and fucks it until I puke around it and then slaps my face and tells me what a filthy cunt I am before flipping me over and ramming it up my ass while I cry…
Whoo. ~fans myself~
Where was I?
Oh yes. The “icky” stuff. People focus on that and I get the emails (or he gets the emails!) about what an abuser he is and all of that silliness.
And I’m just sitting here, watching the deer graze in the front yard. Shopping at Amazon. Petting my dog. And dreaming, fantasizing, about the next time he wants to use me all icky-like.
So please please please, for the love of all things consensual, send supplies to the starving kids in Africa. Donate canned goods to the food pantry. Do whatever it is you gotta do that scratches your savior itch– but stop stop stop advising me on how terrible my life is.
I know it’s terrible.
Terribly wonderful, that is.