RIP: Mr. Grey

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There’s a reason Cliff Notes have been so popular. They work. Don’t fuck with what works. Don’t fix what isn’t broken.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if the man I’m involved with has a cheat sheet to follow.

I had an epic weekend… smoky, tipsy-fabulous in fishnets and stilettos, sporting the same smile that’s gotten me into trouble since I first discovered it could turn the tide my way. It was a perfect night with a girlfriend of mine and I didn’t fall into bed until 3 in the morning.

I woke up at 6 because I’m a mommy and I’m usually up at 4:30 to run.. I forced myself to go back to sleep in anticipation of my hot date later that night. I fought my way through every 15 minutes until 8.

My coffee was less than exciting.

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My flight was delayed. Every single flight on my airline was delayed. I’d cockblocked myself by not shaving my legs before I left and was DYING that I was approaching this date without the grooming I demand of myself. Whatevs. This is celibate dating. I don’t have to worry about shaving in the way I do when inspired.

But I’m so inspired I’m ready to let La Perla work it’s magic and everyone knows you can’t wear fancy panties with hairy legs.

I called in some epic favors and flew home by 5. I made an unrealistic drive home, in an hour and change. I probably averaged 85 mph, I flew in the front door and ran to the shower, throwing off clothes as I went. Clip, clip, stockings. Swish, panties. Clip, bra. Into heaven with a brand new razor. I may actually be on time.

His messages whistling at me only make me shave faster.

Out and dry, I ripped open the new stockings I bought on vacation. Panties can either be functional or fucktional and I prefer the latter if I’m buying them for recreation. These fit the bill.. There are rose gold rings tying corsets across the ass I’m working hard to perfect, and I am quite happy with the visual.

I’m bait, in heels. It’s our 4th date and my house is empty. It’s take no prisoners at this point and I’m a formidable opponent.

Driving to meet him was surreal, as I DO NOT TAKE DATES ANYWHERE I KNOW ANYONE. I take them to the worst restaurant in town so I’m not sad if I can’t go back.

Until Miss Fancy spoke up.

F- Uh. No. If it sucks, you should at least have a nice meal.

(I’m actually eating that same delicious dinner right now, and she is %100 correct.)

When faced with the choice of who to find first, I went in search of Miss Fancy. He found me, chatting with her and I had to bite my teeth together to keep my jaw from dropping.

He’s wearing tennis shoes. Jeans. Nondescript button down shirt. To my best friend’s restaurant. I look lovely, if I do say so myself, and he looks like he studied for the SAT’s last night. No tie. After enough interest, if he ignores your shameless objectification and the easy opportunity to capitalize on it, throw him out with last week’s news.

But, it all really comes down to one last detail that has me annoyed.

He didn’t shave.

I risked life and limb to deliver silky parts to him and he couldn’t navigate his face.

Our server greets us and asks for our drink order. He announces that he’s having whatever I’m having. I ordered a dirty Bombay Sapphire martini. I don’t think he’s had one before because he’s gingerly sipping it and not enjoying it in the slightest. I’m silently pleased.

She returns for our order and he says he read the menu on the way up and orders the only boring thing on it. Pasta and chicken. Ok. I order steak and he stuns me.

G- I haven’t eaten a bite of steak since I was 8. I don’t want to develop a taste for it and I had a really bloody, gross steak then so it’s easy to think of it as gross.

J- Ok that’s insane. Taste this. I can’t even order anything else on the menu because this is so good.

He wont even taste it. He ordered us steak on our first date and I realize it was just because he knew it was what I like. While I appreciate that, I just don’t think I can love a man who can’t appreciate a good steak. I’ve said for years that I’ll know it’s the right one when he can cook my steak properly. Every single man I have ever loved has overcooked them, and I have a penchant for men who can cook, so that’s saying something.

G- I’ve never had a cheeseburger and won’t try that either. I guess I like being able to say that, so why try one now?

WTF? I happen to know the Cheeseburger Queen and I instantly argue against this stupid idea of his.

J- Oh no, friend. I draw the line at cheeseburgers. That’s just wrong.

G- Nope. Not even a taste.

Ok. I’ve heard enough. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. Time to wrap this insanity up.

He held the door for me and stopped at his car in the parking lot. It’s late, dark and I’m parked on the other side of the lot. I gave him an unimpressed half-smile and he hugged me.

G- Let’s do this again soon!

J- Thank you for dinner.

I walked to my car and waited until his headlights took a right turn on the highway and blew him a kiss as he drove out of my life again.

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I can do a lot of things with a little bit of a man. I am the queen of making the most of a bad situation and I do not expect enough…..

But I draw the line at cheeseburgers and I demand a certain amount of effort if my ass is literally in a corset.

I crave a dirty, hard working man, not a rich guy who brags about working 25 hours a week and can’t find the time to iron, shave or tie himself into what he knows I love.

No thank you.

I went back in and laughed over a glass of wine with my best girl. Bemoaning the terrible quality of available men and my silky single legs only reminds me how stupid this stuff all is. I’d rather have dinner with her than any guy and this dumpster fire situation with Mr. Grey isn’t worth sacrificing all my free time to.

I’m over it. It’s knitting season and I’d rather whip up a few chastity belts than suffer through another dumb date.

Bible Study

Let me preface this by saying that I never imagined I’d be going to heaven. Good thing too, because this could land me in purgatory forever.

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I realize I’m far too adventurous for my own good, but I have never resisted temptation before and I don’t intend to start now. I’m an amused atheist at best, so I’m afraid this is too tempting to resist, even for me.

I was so tickled by the idea that I told my coworkers yesterday. The songbird laughed.

S- I know this is happening soon, because of your big date this weekend. What are you wearing?

Reason #5076 I’m going to hell.

I flew home, made dinner, read bedtime stories and jumped in the shower as the sitter walked in. The Dumpling is overjoyed and I’m running 25 minutes late.

The Foreplay King is taking me to this bizarre date and I am rising to the occasion in every way I can. Shaved, waxed, painted and flying out the door in a fog of expensive perfume and fear.

I have an hour drive and I am second guessing everything I’ve done since the last time I went to confession, which was in 2011. I catch sight of my fishnet stockings and laugh for the first time in days. A full belly laugh that has me wiping tears out of the corners of my heavily made up eyes. Straight to hell, ha ha ha.

I’m fading and so tired. I worked all weekend and am in desperate need of a nap. I pulled into the next gas station I saw and ran in. Two hot pink Monsters in my hand, beef jerky, because I’m starving, and the cashier raises an eyebrow at me. It’s five and I’m dressed for ten. I grinned and paid the confused man.

We don’t have hookers in North Idaho. I’m sure I’ve given the man quite a story.

Because?

I unearthed my black leather miniskirt from the box of skinny clothes in the garage, and laced myself into my favorite black corset for good measure. Clipping into those fishnet stockings was merely the icing on the ass cake.

My little cardigan isn’t fooling anyone, all I’m missing is a riding crop.

I called him as I got in the car.

J- You better dress up. The gas station guy just gave me wide eyes.

G- I am SO excited. Also dressed. Hurry, I can’t wait to see what you picked.

I’ll stop right here and say that I knew full well that he was in a suit because I’ve given him plenty of motivation to do what I want. He was in Armani and I bit my lip so hard it bled. Something not allowed in his new car. He tugged me in through the kitchen door and the grey hit me in the chest.

Uhh.hhh…hh… This poor man likes me because I bring color to his life. Everything in his house is a shade of slate. I’m disappointed that my panties are black because I’d love to wander around this house half clad in red.

I wander into his closet and my mouth goes dry. Dear God. I understand a man’s proclivity for a garter belt after seeing his ties, hanging around me. I look up to see him standing in the doorway, smiling knowingly.

G- Sit.

I do.

G- You love purple, yes?

He pulls a grape satin tie off the hanger and wraps it around my neck. I can’t speak. My teeth are permanently embedded in my lip.

G- We need to go.

His hands are tying it instinctively and I’m doing my best to control my breathing. If he thinks I’m taking it off, he’s insane. It looks like I’m wearing a tie now, too.

He pulls me to the car by the tie he’s tied around my neck and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to cancel the whole adventure then and there. He drives a Tesla like my brother just bought and it hardly needs his attention to get us there.

J- These people are going to know we’re here with ill intentions..

G- Babydoll, everybody is here with ill intentions.

J- Let’s do this. I’m tired.

We got out of the car and walked into the restaurant, with his arm hanging protectively around my shoulders.

The second the door swung open, I was stunned. These are beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful people. A pretty blonde woman smiles at me as she eyes me from the ankles up.

Whoa. I wasn’t ready to be so popular. Suddenly we’re surrounded by our new friends and I’m being vetted as the new vag. My date is smiling at me, smugly and I feel uneasy.

S- Who are you? What makes you different?

Her question took me by surprise, because I actually feel compelled to answer it honestly.

J- I’m a mommy, first. I’m a designer, a seamstress, a farmer, a daughter, sister and best friend. I’m the worst enemy, the best cook, umm…. I don’t know?

I hear someone else say “I’m an accountant” and laugh at myself. What the fuck am I even doing in such a weird situation. I ordered a double Goose on the rocks and told Mr. Grey he was driving me home.

Grey is looking at me like I’m a t-bone and I’m inclined to volunteer as dinner. This is fucking weird and I’m not sure what to do next…. when the man beside me takes out a bible.

I stuck my hand out towards Mr. Grey in a desperate attempt to escape. He did not help. Alrighty then. Here we go.

M- Isaiah 4:1 And seven women shall take hold of one man in that day, saying, “We will eat our own bread and wear our own clothes, only let us be called by your name; take away our reproach.”

I saw Mr. Grey frown at my left eyebrow, which has a mind of it’s own.

J- and here I was feeling so guilty about having two. I need five more?

Yep. You could have heard a pin drop. My fishnets burned a little if I’m going to be honest. I’m also tired, pissed off and sick of foreplay. I shot a text to the man I’d like to have waiting for me when I get home. Don’t hate.

My biggest fear going into this crazy date was that I’d walk in and recognize someone and I’m really happy that I walked in and recognized myself for a change.

Stepping outside of your comfort zone is critical and I’ll continue to give into temptation at breakneck speed, but knowing your worth is everything. I will not be patronized and shamed by a bunch of freaky swingers. Absolutely not. We left shortly afterwards.

He drove me home, I drank three more glasses of wine and sent text messages I regret…

but at least I didn’t wake up with Polly and Dave.

The One? Nah.

(I think I may be a lifer. I found this sitting in my drafts folder from 2011. The adorable Baby Chicken has since gotten married, so my apologies to the Mrs.)

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Someone asked me recently…

D- What are you looking for?

J- I don’t know? A normal, nice, hot, funny, sexy, smart, sharky…

D- Oh keep going, jeez, is that all?

J- One can hope, ya know. I’m aware most of us settle for two of the seven.

D- Then what. After you meet that guy.

J- Hopefully I like him.

D- and if you do…then what?

J- Date him? I don’t know- what are you getting at?

D- and then you’ll get married?

J- Oh god no! I’ll never ruin a perfectly good relationship with marriage, ever again.

I’ve been to a few weddings this year, and the same feeling always strikes me.

Dread.

Deep in the pit of my chest, dread. I never want that again. I really like my life belonging to myself. I suppose I’m actually dating for fun at this point. Cool.

In getting out of a lengthy situation, I’m gun shy. I’m not really ready to date anybody because I’m still busy whining about someone else.

I need to knit for a while, sew with my daughter for a while… make a few thousand marshmallows… plant a few thousand seeds.

Hearing the grumblings of friends wanting to introduce me to people, even meeting a great guy… My head isn’t in the game. I’m ridiculously hot & cold, and I have a crush on a certain chicken. Not a safe bet if you’re looking for a girlfriend or wife.

I’m a little disgusted with men in general actually, and enjoying hanging out with my guy friends, who only hit on me when they’re really really drunk.

On hiatus really- because the last time I jumped into dating headfirst after a breakup, I ended up with a stalker. I’m entirely too disinterested, and unfortunately everyone is susceptible to wanting something that eludes them. When you play by the same rules as the boys, they don’t know what hit them…

Some of us aren’t interested in finding “The One” and though I love being single, I do like hanging out with someone funny/sexy/sweet as well.

Hence my Baby Chicken habit.

It is, what it is, what it is. Perfect. Great company, no strings, funny & burn the house down. A little too burn the house down at times. It takes 3 days to recover from having Chicken for dinner…but I’m always tempted. I can’t lie, he’s my favorite bad habit.

I’m incredibly unavailable at this point- and I’d be lying if I claimed otherwise.

Single is kind of wonderful. Dating has been extremely unsuccessful and I’d like to refer to having a boyfriend in the same way I refer to the seven years I lost with a bad one. With contempt, because I think it’s been such an epic waste of time up to this point.

I like the idea… I love the idea of endless monogamous love, I just don’t know that I’m delusional enough to believe in it anymore… or even want it for myself.

Variety is the spice of life….

and I’d rather be single… with an occasional Chicken.

I’m sorry, Jerk.

(An old treasure from my days in the apron ♥)

It was a quiet Friday night at work. The weather dictates how busy we’ll be, and it was overcast but warm, so the patio was half full of happy customers. With two tables a piece, the three of us were working hard to avoid hovering over the precious few determining our financial survival for the evening. Our first server was cut for the night and chatted with the rest of us while she did her closing work. My remaining coworker and I were enjoying the peaceful hum of being able to offer our customers our undivided attention to every detail they demand. People love, love, love to be coddled. Especially the people we enjoy the least.

This is where things went wrong.

Our first server sat someone on her way out the door… and neither of us heard her tell us about him. Neither of us noticed him sitting there watching the minutes tick by… and actually had no idea he wasn’t a lingering coworkers last customer, enjoying the last of his drink and the sunset.

Until he stormed out.

Instant confusion as we try to figure out what happened. I followed him to the parking lot and couldn’t find him. We realized after talking to the bussers that he’d been sat and watered, and left.

Horror is the only way to describe how you feel as a server when you realize you just walked by him until he left. We all help each other and communicate with each others’ tables. We are all responsible for making sure each guest has what he/she needs.

We are also human, and completely fallible.

So this abandoned man promptly went and left a nasty comment on Urban Spoon and God Dammit…. It’s completely valid and I feel horrible that he didn’t get helped. He was in a beautiful place, with excellent food and friendly, competent waitstaff.

All he had to do was open his mouth and speak.

While I completely apologize, I also would like to take a moment to make a PSA for how to behave in a restaurant. He is equally responsible for his bad time.

1. For the love of Pete… speak up. We are dying to provide you with everything your heart desires. We’re hellbent to deliver an experience that inspires you to over-tip us. We deal with mumbles, people on cell phones, screaming children, etc. Be a man (or lady) about it, and ask for what you want.  His gripe online says he waited 45 minutes and left. Had he said anything, he would have had an amazing time. I would never sit for 45 minutes without asking for a server. 10 minutes, tops. If you haven’t been helped in ten minutes, we do not know you exist. Throw us a bone, speak up.

2. Touch that fucking table and die. This is a collective emotion. Do not rearrange tables unless we ask you to- and we will never ask you to. We know where the invisible section lines run, which tables seat most and the most convenient place to put you. Stop touching without asking.

3. This goes double for touching me. I have to smile through a lot of really awful behavior, rude comments and sexual advances. I can handle it all with grace, until you put your hands on me. I’m a server, not a prostitute. While I will do amazing things for you, none of them will include physical contact between us. Stay in your seat and keep your hands to yourself, please.

4. I have a regular who loves me, unfortunately. He requests me, and I grit my teeth and face it. He would be pleasant, except for the constant waving of his hand in the air at me, snapping his fingers or calling me from across the room. I hate the very sight of him… but he loves me. Sigh. We may be at work to serve and spoil you… but please treat us like human beings. I’m so annoyed by his snapping that I make him wait now. I’m at a loss of what to do other than retrain him or not reward his bad behavior. Like a bad dog.

5. We make a tipped wage, sanctioned by the government. I personally earn $4.50 an hour. Your ten percent tip, insults me. Those twenty five trips I made for your ranch dressing, sides of sauce/etc… mean you’re going to apologize financially and we’re going to be even. More than 20% stuns me and I thank people personally. There are nights I only make enough to pay the babysitter for enjoying my darling baby. I have a repeat offender that I recognize immediately. He spent $126.40 this week and left $130. Lame.

6. Oh Canada… please stay in your own country or educate yourself to the differences in gratuity practices. Running your feet raw for a table of Canucks is pure hell. Trying to casually mention your hourly wage is tacky… so instead we suffer through the 2% tip that after being taxed, basically results in our paying to serve your needy asses.

7. That pretty woman chasing you is our hostess. Get your illiterate ass back behind the large sign that says “PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED”. You passed it on your way in. You saw it, you just didn’t think it applied to you. Move it. If you don”t have a reservation, you are not allowed to throw a temper tantrum. Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on our part.

8. If you have a food allergy, expect to wait longer. We think not killing you is important, so we are using clean pans, utensils, dishes, etc. If you are lying about it because you just don’t like an ingredient in something you ordered? You’re the reason we hate people with food allergies. We have no problem leaving something out of your dinner, but don’t make us bend over backwards to save yourself from looking picky. We deal with picky people every single day. You can’t scare us with your demands, but you can piss us off by lying about an allergy.

9. That apron I’m wearing is not a backwards cape. I do my best, but I’m human and fallible. I’m juggling an enormous amount of details and I do forget one now and then. I’ll be eternally grateful if you remind me. I’ll buy you a beer if you’re kind about it.

10. The hours posted on the door, online and every menu, aren’t suggested times. No you cannot come in before we open. Even if you want to sit with a beer and look at the menu. Would you ask the bank to let you in early? No. Same goes with closing time. We are exhausted and ready to drink to forget you. Get the fuck out.  Do not come in five minutes before we close and do not stay afterwards. We hate you if you do. We will smile and invite you to make yourselves comfortable while we do our closing work. We don’t mean it. We love the people that know to get the hell out.

Thank you ♥

Hippie Toilet Paper

My life is raw insanity these days. The Dumpling is in Kindergarten and brings so many practice books home to read that our refrigerator is covered and we are forever behind in returning the right books. Sight words, glasses, dentist. This is why kids need two parents. We’re a killer team, but we don’t always get it all done. I would honestly pay to not bring those damn books home. Any price.

There’s an acre of dead vegetables in the back yard that I have to rip out and clean up. Add to that the laundry I neglect all week, the grocery shopping that needs to be done and the extremely valuable heirloom tomatoes that are ripe on my kitchen table. I’ll be canning tomorrow, in addition to everything else.

This broken heart of mine has become a pain in my already achy, ass. I don’t have time for tears and torturous dreams. It’s bad enough I’m getting up at 4:30 to run to the songs that make me sad. I hate losing sleep, but it helps and I’m coping. You do what you have to do to get to the other side of the shitty time you’re drowning in. I’m treading water.

Empty compliments and roses aren’t horrible, but they aren’t helpful either. A few dozen orgasms did dull the ache of missing him, but a bandaid can only help so much when you’re bleeding out.

I care too much about the person I am. I’m kind of amazing and it’s time I remembered that and quit wasting time with men destined to lower my standards and discount my self worth. Playboys are only fun until they’re not and it’s only a friend with benefits if he’s still your friend and there’s still benefits.

We read all the books on the refrigerator and I tucked my sleepy sweetheart in. I ran for an hour, took a bubble bath and put my favorite sheets on my bed. Went to brush my teeth and realized we were nearly out of toilet paper. I made a mental note to stop and get some on my way home the next day and fell into bed early.

I walked into the bathroom after I got home from work tonight and saw the empty toilet paper roll.

Fuck. Motherfucking fuck.

I have been fantasizing about being home on Friday afternoon, since Monday at 4:30 in the morning. This isn’t negotiable though, and I figure I’ll be lazy and go to the health food store right down the street. They have to have unbleached Charmin or something, right?

Hippies wipe too.

I tell the Dumpling to get her shoes on and she’s excited. She knows they have excellent treats. I know this damn toilet paper is going to end up costing me $40, but I am in absolutely NO mood to run into anyone I know and none of my friends shop at the overpriced hippie store.

I try to avoid the children at the door selling raffle tickets, then tell them I already bought one. I’m sorry, but that’s my least favorite thing in the world. I don’t want to be guilted into contributing just because it’s Friday and I don’t want to leave the house all weekend. No. I want to go home and I only came for toilet paper. Move aside, private school gamblers.

Five seconds in, the Dumpling has talked me into buying her a tiny gold-plated cheesecake. A minute later I found a piece of sushi grade albacore for dinner. One look at the price tags reminds me that we need to get the hell out of there, and fast.

We made our way to the paper products and goodness gracious, they think a whole lot of wiping their ass with unbleached, recycled paper. For the first time in my life, I find myself searching for the least expensive toilet paper. $6 for 4 rolls. For the record, this would cost .99 at the other store.

This is what I call a stupidity payment. When you know you could have twice as much toilet paper for your money but your lazy ass went to the hippie store just to avoid people.

I’ll just be over here, suffering the consequences of my lazy behavior and poor list making skills.

Wiping with what feels like a dollar store paper tablecloth.

Horrible Quitter

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I’m the original glutton for punishment. It’s my worst quality. I have no choice but to take responsibility for it because it’s common knowledge amongst everyone who knows and loves me. Hell, even my enemies know I’m far better at hurting myself than they are.

I always see the writing on the wall… I just don’t read the words.

I was at work on Friday afternoon when a text came buzzing into the phone I’d tucked into my bra. His tone is different and my heart races and breaks at the same time. I miss him so much at this point that it’s a dull ache. I’m also irritated enough to snap because of the instant smile it puts on my face. It’s a horrible thing to be waiting for the message that destroys all the progress you’ve made in one split second.

Perfection- Why?

Why. Why, indeed. How? would also be an appropriate question; since our conversations revolve around the weather and football. I’ve been swallowing my broken heart for the most mundane of messages. Finally able to miss him without being upset about it.

And here he is. Back. Getting an eyeful because I’m just mad enough to say the things I’ve been doing my best to swallow.

J- Then tell me you miss me. I can’t be naked with you one second and talking about the weather in the next instance. 

Silence. He falls asleep when things get honest and I’m waiting for answers. My heart is back in my throat and he still isn’t saying the words I want him to. The only thing that’s changed is that he’s reading about how much it dented me.

For the record, it’s a really mixed blessing to have the man you crave, read your blog. I absolutely have exploited them with it, I have written a man into my sheets and I have burned a few at the stake when things ended poorly.  It takes a VERY brave man to roll with it, especially when I’m furious. The smartest men who were reading whilst seeing me, have exploited the fact that they could have personalized porn written about themselves if they played their cards right. I’m a lot of fun when you leave me inspired and wordy.

Ohhhh but when you break my heart, I’m pretty damn sad about it and they feel awfully guilty when they continue to read after things are over.

Newsflash, Perfection…

You’re reading my journal. 

If you hurt me, chances are good that I wont have you riding in on a white horse. When you take my favorite dick away? I’m not really going to ramble on and on about it anymore. 

You’re going to read about my hurt feelings and the regret I have for being so stupid to do something a second time that hurt like hell the first. 

You’re going to read about how disappointed I was to find out you had a girlfriend you didn’t mention. The girlfriend you still have. 

I can’t stop you from reading, but I can’t make you feel better about it either. 

We can text about weather and you can avoid my questions, but I suggest you read at your own risk. I love you, but I also wouldn’t feel bad if you felt as bad as I have. 

Frankly, nothing inspires me to have swing-from-the-chandeliers-sex more than knowing you’ll be reading about it, so maybe thanks are in order?

xoxo J

Free Range Parenting

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I’m trying not to be an old mom. Really, I am.

I remember crossing paths with “old” moms when I was a first-time mother at 18.

They weren’t any different when my second child was born, at 24.

The smug air around them rarely invites you in, so it was a rare occasion that I found myself with a group of “old” moms. One memorable occasion still sticks in my craw. A friend of mine had an accidental baby in her late forties, and we were all regularly tortured by their presence as a result. She loved to drop him off at my house with a satisfied smirk around my messy life. She patted me on the back one day and said “Oh honey… you’ll have so much more patience when you’re an older mother.”

My blood boiled.

Her little prince was more like a case of Shingles, and we’d had him for 8 hours that day… about 7 hours too long.

Why?

Because he didn’t have rules, he had “loving guidelines”. He didn’t have to share if he didn’t feel like it, even when the toys he was deciding whether or not to share, didn’t belong to him. He didn’t have to nap, didn’t have to eat his food, didn’t have to take a bath if he didn’t feel like it and didn’t have any sort of behavioral expectations, either.

He was a garden variety spoiled brat, in my book. All the touchy feel-y words in the world can’t make a spade anything but a spade.

I refused to accept her judgement, and moved on. We saw them less and less, thankfully.

Then I had a baby at 37 and realized that she was kind of, sort of, right about everything.

I feel bad for my older kids for having such a demanding mom with too many ideas in her head about how things had to be, and how it had to look and why we had to go to church and blah, blah, blah.

None of that shit was important, and I wasted so many precious moments, barking. That one last baby, has taught me how vitally important it is, to listen.

So if she only eats her noodles with butter and parmesan cheese, ignoring the homegrown veggie medley I harvested, washed and roasted for her… Oh well. Maybe next time. I even let her have the ice cream anyway. I’ve completely gone soft.

Childhood is so painfully short. You should eat all the ice cream you can.

I’ve learned which battles aren’t worth more than a giggle and which demand a firm resolve.

My eldest children are successful and beautiful members of society. They work hard and I am very proud. I hope their little sister follows in their impeccable example.

Being an old mom means you’ve learned that despite your best efforts, your children grow up to be who THEY are. The secret is learning to just enjoy it. To treasure each moment even if it looks nothing like you thought it would.

Days here are wild. I wake up to her screaming “MOMMMMMMMMMMMY!!!!!!”

After the adrenaline subsides and I explain to her (again) that I think she’s in danger when she screams my name when I’m sleeping, she wraps her tiny arms around my neck and says:

B-I love you SOOOOO much.

Which is totally worth the mild heart attack & reminds me again that the most important thing is this snugly time spent together because the rules sort themselves out. Life is too short to be a grouchy, demanding mom at ANY age.

I try to love more & yell less whilst doing my best to not raise a free range asshole. ♥