“There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”

The girls had decided they were going to cook me breakfast for Mother’s Day. B-man wasn’t home so he was off the hook on having to help (I told you he was the smart one). They “warned” me of it the night before, telling me that I couldn’t get up until they called me.

I warned them that we don’t sleep until noon.

I was a little reluctant to be handing my kitchen over to the inexperienced hands of my daughters, but I didn’t want to rain on their parade. Besides, they were actually going to do something together. How could I justify interfering when I’d just been bitching about how they hate each other?

Before going to bed on Saturday night, I nervously gave a brief tutorial on how to use the waffle iron. My new waffle iron. My clean and shiny and I-luffs-you waffle iron. Then we checked the batteries in the smoke detector (what? we have faith. We’re just cautious with it. Shush.) and went to bed.

Sunday morning, bright and fucking early (6:30am. Maybe I should have qualified the “we dont sleep til noon” with a “we also don’t get up before the sun on weekends”?), we were awakened by the clatter of pans and banging of cupboard doors.

For quite awhile, Master and I just lay there and listened. I couldn’t hear what the girls were saying to each other, only the low murmur of their voices. Then the shrill rise when they’d start to snap at each other, followed by footsteps stomping away and then stomping back, and then the low murmur again.

We giggled. Me and Master. We are teh evils.

They were cooking for a long LONG time. We were beginning to get the shakes from lack of coffee. One of us was going to have to make a coffee run or we were gonna die. The idea that one of would have to go was cemented when I heard the exhaust fan kick in over the stove and one of the girls give a hacking cough.

“That doesn’t sound good.” I said.

“I should go out there.” He replied.

I nodded and pushed him out of bed. (Well. It was Mother’s Day– not Master’s Day!)

He left and I settled into the pillows in his warm spot with my book. (I miss Harry. *sniffle*) After several more minutes of pan-clanging and the drifting smell of waffles, I cautiously crept to the bedroom door and eased it open a crack.

A crack gives me a tiny slice of the view into the kitchen.

That was enough.

The exhaust fan was blowing on high. The sliding door was flung open and cold air was blowing in (It snowed here on Saturday. S N O W E D. It’s MAY, ffs!). Smoke was billowing through the air. I could see the garbage can overflowing (literally things were falling onto the floor) with the remnants of several burnt and/or undercooked waffle-y shaped things. The girls were hollering back and forth at each other and running around and Master was standing at the end of the hallway, hands on his hips, watching them with a big ol’ shit-eating grin on his face.

Maybe he heard my “Oh my fucking God” whisper or maybe he sensed the dismay in the air because he whipped around, caught sight of my face in the door crack, pointed his finger and sternly said “You. Out.”

So I shut the door and crawled back in bed to see if I could find my happy place.

(No, not THAT happy place. Pervs. It was Mother’s Day, not Masturbation Day!)

I was a’scairt. My kitchen! My waffle iron! And I was hungry! And I needed coffee. Lots of coffee. And somehow, I was going to have to walk through the mess and smile and not look at it and not do anything but be light and happy and eat my breakfast.

It was a little while after that that I was allowed to come out. The table was set, piled high with waffles and pancakes, toast and fried eggs. Bananas, milk, OJ. And coffee.

We ate- with the sliding door open and our eyes burning and watering from the smoke that hung heavily in the air. The food was cold and greasy but the coffee was hot and the girls were so fucking pleased with themselves that nothing else mattered.

They’d even turned on my light rock station that plays love songs all day long, something they can’t stand to listen to.

“Look Mom. We didn’t even kill each other.” Am said, proudly.

“We came close.” Jes added.

“I made the pancakes!” Am said hotly.

“Yeah, when you remembered they were cooking!” Jes retorted.

“So what made the smoke?” I asked, interrupting them before blood was spilled.

“We don’t know. It was just… there… all of a sudden.”

I wish now that I’d have thought to take pictures so I could show you the extreme mess that littered the kitchen counters. It was almost cute how destroyed it was. And my waffle iron! I don’t know if they just dipped the whole thing in batter or what but it was *covered*. There were blobs of batter everywhere, counters, floor, stove, sink, down the cabinet doors. One entire box of pancake mix, one dozen eggs- and some of it even made it to the table!

And their pleased, smiling faces. They were so proud of themselves, it tickled me pink.

I grinned at them and sat back, belly stuffed. The mess, the smoke, the rather chilly breakfast weather– I could not have asked for a better morning. Srsly. It was the bestest Mother’s Day in the history of ever. Lots of hugs and thank yous went on after we ate.

Later, after the girls helped me clean up, Master took me to the store where he made me pick out two outfits. (I hate clothes shopping. For real.) He bought me a skirt and a cute top and a pair of capris and another cute top. Now if it’ll just get warm enough to wear them!

Then he bought me an outdoor patio set, table and six chairs, so we can all sit outside and eat and stuffs.

You know, should it ever get warm enough to actually go outside.

Because it’s the fucking arctic circle up in here! What the hell! Snow. In MAY.

Argh.

AND! Master got two blow jobs. Count ‘em. T W O. On Mother’s Day! I got nuttin’! I guess every day is Master’s Day.

~cunt

I hope all of you mothers out there had a glorious Mother’s Day!

“Fathers, be good to your daughters”

 Daddy

Am’s report card thanks you.

Am received VERY high marks on her speech on gay marriage, thanks, in large part to the information, links and emails from all of you.

 Other than a one point deduction because she was six seconds off the time limit, she scored the highest marks possible on all other areas. The best compliment, for her, was a listener who later told Am that her speech had changed the listener’s views, and that she was now a same-sex marriage supporter. What better evidence that you’ve written a damn good persuasive speech, eh?

 Though she still focused quite a bit on the religion/bible aspect, she also touched on almost every other point mentioned here. It was a good speech. Aside from debunking the bible, her points on how marriage has evolved over the years (from women being seen as property and  the old views on interracial unions, etc.) were, in my opinion, the strongest parts of the speech.  

She done good. I thank you.

Give credit where credit is due.

My case of Vanilla Pox continues to run rampant. (Maybe I need some calakinky lotion? kinkymine lotion? *snicker*) So, with no tales of debauchery to tell, I’ll continue to babble about stuff.

 I did, however, have a flash of something while working on crafts yesterday so perhaps there is an end in sight. I sure hope so because, I have to say, being vanilla while married to a horny sadist SUCKS ASS. Although he shows the utmost patience and support while I wallow in this mire, it’s in his nature to reach out and pinch, grab, smack, poke, pull, tug and flick which, quite frankly, pisses me off.

 My station in life or not, I don’t wannaaaaaaaaa!

(I’m still selling crafts, btw. I need to update the link but Im waiting until I finish the Christmas line.)

 Anyway, last night was parent-teacher conferences at the high school. Am openly admits that the reason she likes going to conferences is because the teachers stroke her ego. And they do! They lavish her with praise. It’s not only that she gets good grades because she does struggle in certain classes, but she’s just a good kid, nice, polite, pleasant. The teachers love her.

Unfortunately she inherited my math gene. The one that says that anything above grade level 4 is incomprehensible jibberish. Good thing math isn’t important in life, right? Oy.

Her speech teacher told me that he’s recruiting her for the Forensics Speech Team this year. He said that she’s a natural at public speaking and assured both of us that she’ll “win lots of trophies and medals” at the competitions. I wouldn’t doubt that this speech she’s preparing now on same-sex marriage will be one that she presents at Forensics. (and thank you all so much for the info. It’s been a HUGE help.)

It doesn’t hurt, either, that I also get lavished with praise for having reared such a wonderful child. Though I wish I could take the praise, I don’t. Not really.

I do for some things. Whenever it’s hinted that I’m a less-than desirable parent, I can’t help but reassure myself that the fact that my kids are as great as they are means I’m doing *something* right. But I’m also a pretty firm believer in nature over nurture.

Take Jes and Am for instance. They’re spawned from the same gene pool, only one year apart, raised by the same person, with identical rules, in identical environments, and up until the last year and a half, interacted with the same peer group, same teachers, same communities. Yet, they are polar opposites in personality, temperament, interests, goals, intelligence, moods.. you name it. Two strangers from opposite sides of the world couldn’t be more different than my two daughters.

How could that be attributed to anything other than nature? I believe that people are born with pre-set traits, and nurturing does nothing more than build on them.

Same with myself. If I was kinky because of nurturing, or because of my environment, why do I dip into these incredibly UN-kinky times? If my propensity to kink *isn’t* based upon a chemical or hormone that my body produces, then I would never experience these “lows”. If it were a result of my environment, I’d be steady because my desire for it wouldn’t be dependent upon whatever chemical it is that’s currently at a low dosage point.

There is a lot of speculation on how having an abusive childhood or an abusive past forces a person into kink. The theory is that it’s a continuation of abuse, a continuation of a “familiar comfort”. That one knows no other way to interact.

I don’t agree with that. Not entirely. If that were the case then ALL people into kink would be abuse victims, which is not true. All abuse victims would be drawn to kink, which is also not true. There are a certain amount of abuse victims in kink, just as there are a certain amount of abuse victims in ALL walks of life.

I used to work primarily with women, and occasionally we’d sit and gab and get on the subject of childhoods and pasts. A vast number of us had been abused in our pasts. A VAST number. I remember thinking to myself “wow. a huge number of abuse victims are drawn to healthcare careers!” But the truth is, there is simply a huge number of abuse victims, period. Everywhere.

The fact that I was abused in my past is no more consequential to who I am now, than is the fact that I’m a brunette with blue eyes. Or that I’m shorter than average. Or that I was a smoker. Or that I used to have a crush on Michael Jackson (way before he got really weird, mind you.) Point is, all of those things about me have shaped me in some ways, yes, but my hardwiring was determined at birth. I believe anyway.

Just as was my daughters’. I don’t know how much credit I can take for that.

Can I quit?

Today, well hell, the last several days, a week maybe, I’d go vanilla I think. I’m just not feeling *anything* even remotely close to desiring kink. Nothing. Nada. Don’t want sex, don’t want pain, don’t want NUTHIN.

 But I know I’ve gone through this valley before so I’m not too worried. It ebbs and flows, right? And really, if it ebbed away forever, I still wouldn’t be worried. I could do vanilla.

 LIE! I couldn’t. That was a lie. I’m sorry.

I’m not even in the mood for Christmas. Now *that’s* worrisome. Maybe I need some St. John’s Wart, eh? (opinions on SJW? Good stuff or no?)

 Anyway, so Am’s gotten a couple of babysitting jobs lately and yesterday she asked me if she could take me out to dinner and shopping. Just me, some mom and daughter time. So of course the first thing I feel is guilt.

I’m hardwired for guilt I think.

 I felt guilty that she’d be spending her hard earned cash on me, I felt guilty that we’d be going out to eat without Master and B-man (and to our most fav-o-rite Chinese buffet place too. The one that snatches your plate out from under your nose.) But I had to just let it go. She wanted to do something nice for me, to spend some time together.. so guilt or not… I agreed and we went.

It was nice. I don’t do things like that without Master very often so it felt a little weird, but she’s a good kid and she’s good company. I like talking to her and listening to her prattle on about her friends and who’s saying what and sleeping with who and backstabbing who. She’s a good listener too, she loves to ask me questions about my teenage years and how things were back then.

After we ate, we walked around the store for a bit. She bought me a book, Brother Odd, the last (I think) of a 3 part series by Dean Koontz. We had a really pleasant evening together.

Before we left I had made sure that supper was ready for the men-folk, and we weren’t gone for very long, about 2 hours tops, yet I was still feeling guilty. I mean, my goodness, Master had to serve Himself! He had to entertain Himself! He was all alone without ME! *sob*

Truth be told, He probably enjoyed the break.

It was just weird. Or something. I’m so.. I don’t know what. Dependent? on him. He would never deny me the time spent with her anyway, but I hadn’t discussed it in fine detail with him so I wasn’t feeling like I had full permission either. It felt a little bit naughty, even though it wasn’t, and I felt sneaky, even though I wasn’t. He knew exactly where I was and with whom and why and for how long… but I was all alone! I felt very much like I’d been untethered. And I didn’t like it at all.

I just think I’m very strange.

But I didn’t let that affect my evening with Am either. She was doing something very nice for me and I didn’t let that internal angst show. She’s a good kid.

She’s giving a speech  pretty soon about homosexual’s right to marry. She’s tending to focus on the bible, because she says that’s what most people bring up when it comes to objections to gay marriage, but I don’t think  she should only focus on the bible. Yet when she asks me what the other objections are, I kind of draw a blank. So if anyone has any (more) information or links to help me help her with this, I’d appreciate that.

I guess that’s it for today.

~cunt