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Colds lead to sore throats.  These bring on coughing, which ushers in sleeplessness until finally everyone ends up a tired, weepy mess.

My little ones respond to extreme tiredness by falling asleep approximately three seconds after the lights go out.  In contrast, my eldest fights it.  “I’m not tired!” she’ll protest, her snarl blending into a yawn before the words are even spoken.  “Can’t I stay up and read for a little bit?”

I don’t have a problem telling her no.  If need be, I leave instructions with her father to put her to bed early on the nights he’s at the house.  But she struggles against sleep so hard that even our best efforts can’t force her to get the rest she needs.

After a full week of sleeping struggles, she was wrung out.  Her father had left for the evening.  I’d settled in to work, thinking everyone was down for the night.  But before long she appeared in the living room with some small issue.  I curtly helped her resolve it, then pointed her back toward bed.  Within moments she returned, another seemingly minor conundrum on her mind.  I was more curt this time.  I instructed her not to come back again unless she was bleeding, barfing or on fire.

She didn’t come back.  But five minutes later I heard her whispering from the top of the stairs.  “Are you bleeding?” I asked.

No, she wasn’t bleeding.

“Are you barfing?”

Negative.

“Are you on fire?”

She began wailing.  No she wasn’t on fire, but she neeeeeded me, she sobbed.  As I put her back in bed, she sobbed out grief that daddy didn’t live with us anymore.  She missed him, she cried.  Why couldn’t he live with us?

Lord, I thought.  Not tonight.  Not any night.  “Way after your bedtime when you’re sick isn’t a good time for us to talk about this,” I told her.  “But daddy and I were fighting too much.”

“Then why didn’t you just stop fighting?” she whimpered.

Oh if only we could have.  “I wish we could have,” I told her.

“What were you fighting about?”

Intimacy, my brain said.  Sex.  Demonstrating love.  Time.  Money.  Taking care of each other.  “Grown up things, baby.  Not you, and not your siblings.”

“Grown up things like the economy?” She perked up a little.  Her class has been discussing “the economy” lately.

“Yes, I guess we did fight about the economy,” I told her.  “Money is something that lots of grown ups fight about.”

“But why didn’t you just stop?  You don’t fight now!”

A sudden and unnatural exhaustion hit me.  “We don’t fight now because we live in different houses.”

Her sobbing began afresh.  “But I miss him so much.  I miss him all the time.”

As I tried without much success to soothe her tears, I cursed myself for being so selfish that I could not stay married to her daddy.  How much have I hurt these small people, in how many ways, some of which I’ll probably never know?  How I wished that I could have held out, held on, put my needs behind those of my children.

Perhaps I should have, to spare them this pain.

*Please, don’t comment just to tell me I’m wrong.  Thank you.*

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Would it be an overstatement to say that I was deeply moved when I opened the fat package of NYC SexBloggers Calendars which arrived today in my mail?

I’m not sure that I care if it’s an overstatement:  I was deeply moved.

Although I live far from New York City and have met just one of the pin-ups in person, I have some idea of how hard everyone involved worked to get this project done — and done well.  They faced challenges such as a very tight schedule, coordinating logistics with  incredibly busy people, rounding up sponsors, and creating a design that absolutely rocks.

Some said that it couldn’t be done (and done well), but they didn’t know the determination and talent this group has.  I knew from the start that the calendar would turn out wonderfully; still, I was blown away by how slick and professional it felt in my hot little hands.

I’ll soon be sending out calendars to the folks who won them from me.  You should have received an email message from me yesterday if you were one of those lucky folks.

And if you haven’t already placed an order to help out a great cause, go do it now.

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This is so nice
Just might sleep with the same girl twice
They say it’s better the second time
They say you get to do the weird stuff.
–Captain Hammer, So They Say

Not long ago one of my online pals dipped her toe into the murky waters of online dating after a bit of a break.  She’d previously used sites such as AdultFriendFinder, Yahoo Personals and one or two places focused on a particular kink she enjoys.

But this time she wanted to try something different.  She paid a hefty membership fee to a site that promises a more cautious, leisurely approach.  She filled out pages of personality information, then waited for the site’s mysterious algorithms to spit out potential matches for her.

In good time it did so.  She was able to view some preliminary details about a small group of theoretically compatible men; then, in order to continue the matching process, she needed to select a group of questions for the men to answer.  She wasn’t interested in some of the men, so she didn’t have the system send them questions.  Some of the men she sent questions to did not respond.

But a few did.  In the next round, they both asked and answered more questions about themselves and what they were looking for.  And eventually my friend was left with one potential match.  It seemed like a promising one.  The man (we’ll call him David) lived in the next town over.  He held a respectable position in local city government.  According to the information he provided to my friend (let’s call her Julia), he was a few years out from a divorce and just getting back into dating.

He described himself as “a little rusty.”  He spoke of wanting to take things slowly:  the occasional dinner, walk through a bookstore, movie, or conversation with someone whose life was similar to his.  This sounded perfect to Julia.  Only at this point did they both indicate to the dating site that they’d like to be able to contact each other via the site’s email.  Up until that point their only means of contact had been in following the site’s labyrinthine process of getting to know one another.

Over the next few days they emailed, sharing more of their stories.  When the weekend rolled around, they met for coffee.  That meeting went well, Julia told me.  David appeared upstanding and considerate; more importantly, his in-person stories seemed to match what he’d said online.  Julia complimented him on being not nearly so “rusty” as he’d reported, in fact.  The date went well enough that they both filled out positive remarks for each other in the dating site’s system of evaluating folks you’ve met.

They set up another date for the next weekend.  David was to meet Julia at her apartment so that they could go to a movie together.  He arrived bearing a book they’d discussed at their first meeting.  Julia was touched at the gesture.

They were early for the movie so Julia suggested coffee.  Coffee lead to a tour of the apartment.  The tour ended in the bedroom, where…well, you can imagine the details.  According to Julia, they don’t really bear recounting, but is that really any surprise?  Is the first encounter between any two people the most blog-worthy sex?

Two rounds down, David made to skedaddle.  “Guess we missed that movie,” he muttered on the way out the door.  “I’ll call you next week.”  Then he was gone.

Julia realized, of course, that they’d gotten ahead of themselves.  But she’s an adventurous, open-minded person — probably more so than I am, if that gives you a benchmark.  She knew before inviting David to her bed that it could be a one-time deal, and even though that’s not exactly what she was after, she’s philosophical enough to realize that sometimes, these things just happen.

She wasn’t particularly surprised then when days passed without any contact from him.  But he was preparing for a long trip; to give him the benefit of the doubt she logged onto her dating site profile with the intention of leaving a quick “Enjoy your trip!” message.

But she couldn’t.  He’d blocked her on the site.

I find this so puzzling.  Out of all the possible ways someone might go about finding a one-night stand, David’s method seems among the most difficult.  There are entire sites set up around the idea of finding short-term partners; presumably those would provide easier access to a quick fuck.  Why deal with the slowness and expense of a site like the one he used?

Hasn’t it crossed his mind that there are women who want longer-term yet uncommitted partners?  That it’s entirely not necessary to fuck and run?  Or fuck and run and block?

Perhaps you’re thinking that David was underwhelmed by Julia’s performance in the bedroom?  I suppose this is possible.   But he’s over forty.  Shouldn’t he realize that sex almost always gets better after the first time?

Julia’s got no explaination for his caddish behavior, and 800+ words later neither do I.  We’ll never know for sure what devilry David had in mind, but I do know one thing for certain.

He missed out on Julia’s most righteous weird stuff.  Poor dude.

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For reasons I can’t quite fathom, I’ve been fascinated by the TLC show following the life and times of the Duggar family.

Have you heard of them?  This nineteen-member family lives in Arkansas and is currently expecting their eighteenth child.  They practice devoutly conservative Christian values including avoiding most television and the internet.  The children are taught at home.  Their parents encourage “courtship” instead of dating; rather than seeing many people before finally deciding to become serious with one, their eldest children save their entire hearts (and bodies) exclusively for one person.

I’m fascinated by the family for many reasons, not the least of which is that many days, I’m completely overwhelmed by my own gaggle of children, which consists of but a tiny fraction of the number of children the Duggars wrangle.  How they manage it boggles the mind.

I wonder, for example, how they can keep all of those children clean.  My children are never clean; even directly out of the tub I find schmutz embedded in their crevices.  And yet the Duggar children appear to sparkle with cleanliness at every moment, no matter what wholesome activity they’re enjoying.  They are never in disarray, not even the little boys, not even when they are jumping out of airplanes, making tater-tot casserole or shooting off paint guns.  How can this happen?

On Twitter I announced my confusion.  I got a pair of responses:

wendyblackheart Didn’t you know? Christians actually repel dirt with the power of their faith.

wendyblackheart Its totally in the bible. Somewhere. Everything is somehow explained in the bible, like that pesky ‘evolution not being true’ thing.

Ah, would that it were so easy.

Schumtz-avoidance aside, I wonder how they’ve managed to produce a crop of such uniformly regular children.  For photos and public appearances they line up by order of age, looking like nothing so much as a set of nesting dolls exploded — or the children of Camazotz.  Seventeen children and not one of them seems fundamentally different from the next.

Where, I ask myself, is the oddball child?  Where is the one who is slightly overweight?  The one who turned out taller (or shorter) than average?

Where is the child who struggles to read?  The redhead?  The child born sick?  The one who throws temper tantrums long after that age should have passed?  The dyslexic child?  The one sporting a cast, or an uneven self-administered haircut, or an identifying mole?

Are none of them left-handed?  Does no one require glasses?

Why aren’t the Duggars raising a child who refuses to wear the clothes typically associated with his or her biological sex?  Or who does not want to marry a member of the opposite sex — or anyone at all?  Or a boy who insists on growing his hair long, or a girl who only wants a fuzzy buzz cut?

Are those children there but hidden?  Have they subverted their desires in order to please the family?  Do they quietly plot for the day they can wiggle away from the overwhelming forced conformity?   Or have their wishes been snuffed out entirely by their parents’ omnipresent guidance?

I don’t know, but it worries me.  It worries me in the way that the lack of dirt worries me, because both dirt and childish rebellion strike me as among the most normal aspects of growing up.  Without them, I wonder how fully grown up these children can ever be, and how terribly painful it will be for them when the dirt and the rebellion finally take hold.

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Someone Twittered about this company last week and I immediately thought, “I MUST HAVE ONE.”  Because nothing says “I’m a proud mama!” like a tote bag made of condoms.

I emailed the company, and now you too can be the proud owner of a bag made of condoms.  Just leave a comment below with a working email address; I’ll choose one winner after the contest ends on Monday, December 1st at 12:01 am.

Safe Sax will send the winner one pink cosmetic bag in which he or she can store makeup, gadgetry, snacks or even…condoms!  Awesome.

Happy commenting!

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I wish my American readers a wonderful day of thanks.  Think of me in the kitchen attempting to cook whist cats crowd and children vie for their grandparents’ attention.

Whatever I’m doing through the day I’ll be thankful for the many blessings this past year has brought, including good health, stable relationships and enough work to put dinner on the table.  I am deeply grateful for the part all of my readers have played in my life thus far.

How about you?  Want to share what fills you with gratitude this Thanksgiving?

——

If you need an extra reason to be thankful, coupon code YDDT-FSP3-RR7L-CCN1 gets my readers $10 off any purchase of $75 or more at Blowfish.com.  Just think:  holiday shopping without the lines, and a present the recipient will be sure to love.  This offer is valid from now through December 1st.

——

Black Friday swag tomorrow.  See you then!

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I was upstairs putting together some byzantine toy for the children, wondering why the ex didn’t come up to help.  When finally it was done, I came down to a horrendous sight.

He hadn’t been able to assist me on the second floor because he’d been busy rearranging the first floor.  You must understand that this man is a prodigious collector of every sort of paper.  He struggles to throw away anything made from trees, and in the time it had taken me to assemble the kids’ toy he’d moved his entire collection back into my house.  Along with every one of his storage “solutions”:  desks, bookshelves, binders, file folders, and et cetera.

I panicked.  I knew it was a dream, yet I couldn’t slow my racing heart or quickening breath.  I believe I may have managed to call out.

I cast my eyes about at the damage.  He’d shoved aside a new armoire and replaced it with bookshelves.  Boxes were piled over the dining room table.  And in the kitchen…oh the kitchen.  He’d removed cabinets from the walls and replaced them with bookshelves.  His desk had been wedged between the pantry and the dishwasher, neither of which could be opened.

“But where will I put all the dishes?” I asked in dismay.

He leered at me.  “Guess that’s your problem, isn’t it?  You wanted me to move back in, so you can deal with all my stuff.  You just couldn’t make it on your own, could you?”

“I was doing fine,” I said.

“Yeah, but you’re broke now.”

“I’m not broke.  I have enough money!”

He answered over his shoulder, smugly, as he stacked a messy sheaf of papers where once the sippy cups had lived.  “Only because you’re taking out loans at those paycheck and title loan places.”

“No I’m not,” I insisted.  “I don’t need you financially at all.  I asked you to come back because I love you.”

The dream spun off into another direction wherein I was given a new house, one that came fully furnished right down to every last drawer.  This prompted hours of dreamy exploration.

Once awake and even days later I have no idea why I dreamed of my ex moving home.  I do love him, though not in the way that I’d consider asking him to come here to live.  I don’t need him financially.  By all indications we’re doing far better as friends than we ever did when married to each other.

And if anyone ever tried to put a desk in between my dishwasher and pantry…well.  That would be the end of that relationship.

Why would I dream such a thing?  Armchair dream analysts’ explications are welcome in the comments below.

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Not long ago it occurred to me that naked time as I know it will soon be over.

Unlike her mother, her grandmother, her grandmother’s mother and her grandfather’s mother, my eldest child has been slow to develop.  She was an enormous child at birth, but at some point around the one-year mark her height/weight chart markings began to taper off.  Now she’s hanging on to the bitter tail-end of the bell curve.  “Nothing to worry about,” her doctor tells me.  “But she’ll probably never be as tall as you or her father.”

I’m not worried.  I see the other little girls in her class, all of whom have half a head and a couple dozen pounds on her, and I’m more relieved than not that she doesn’t have to deal with early development.

I did.  By the time I was in her grade my chest had begun to ache and sprout.  My hips curved.  I worried endlessly about my “fat” thighs, which I hid as much as possible by means of a crocheted poncho worn about my waist like a skirt.   Her classmates look just like this, minus the 70s-era poncho.  I hope they don’t hold the same abhorrence for their rounding-out bodies as I did.

In contrast, my child could easily hide in the previous grade, or even the grade before that.  I see it the most during naked time, when all of my little ones cavort in nothing but their diapers or underpants.  My eldest looks like a bean, still deep brown from the summer.  She looks like a bean which has put out gangly-long leg roots and shorter though no less gangly arm roots.  As of yet, she’s not developed the least bit of shame about running around nearly naked.

I watch her beanish body as she and her siblings sing, dance, wrestle and play for physical signs of myself in her.  I don’t see any.  She has her father’s face and hair, her grandfather’s skin tone, her grandmother’s stubby toes.  I see my great-aunt in her eyebrows.

Instead of her physical appearance, she’s inherited my (and my mother’s) pre-medicated emotional make-up.  She’s high-strung, emotional, prone to anxiety.  I foresee medication in her future, perhaps during or after the emo tsunami I’m expecting that puberty will bring before too long.

Before too long but not quite yet.  I’m hoping we have a few more months of naked time left.

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