Happy birthday, Maggie

You have made three fantastic boys. They learn little details so quickly that it’s a challenge for me to keep up with them. They have all come to learn that I’m not perfect or even as smart as they are; like you did, they have intolerance for people who aren’t as smart as they are.

Well, with me, they are learning patience. That’s something you had trouble with. They are also learning about achievement and disappointment, about this wonderful and terrible world, and (with me as a caregiver), they are learning about how authority isn’t always perfect, but it’s in charge.

With Bigglest Boy’s 9^th birthday last week, he is in his last year of single digits. Next year, he’ll be a tween. I may cry when that happens. He got an Erector Set for his birthday, but not the motorized one that he wanted. He has already figured out how to modify an old electric toothbrush to use as a motor, and has attached it to gears to slow it down so it won’t completely shred whatever it is he’s inventing.

Littlest Boy also had a birthday – his 3^rd – and he, I am both sad and pleased to say, thinks he is no longer a baby. Except he still needs to be held and rocked to sleep. I guess I do, too, sometimes.

Middlest Boy is the little man. He sometimes gets me to tie a bandanna around his head, so he can wear one like his daddy does, when he has to do dirty work like mop the floor or paint. It’s funny to see them out by the creek, hacking brush, both with bandannas on. He looks so much like his daddy now, except when he is angry or frustrated, and then his eyes flash and his teeth grind and, well, he looks like you, I’m afraid. Terrible and beautiful.

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Above, a scrap of Maggie’s music, which rather shocked me when I found it last summer – the song that this blog is named after: Paul Simon’s “How the Heart Approaches What it Yearns.” Boy, that freaked me out so much when I found it, then as I dug further I realized she arranged about a hundred of his songs. For fun, for a diversion. The way you and I would do a crossword puzzle.

I don’t know what to do with all these notes and sheet music that you wrote, but I promise I won’t throw them out. Girlfriend, did you ever hear of “filing”? There are three big file boxes of this stuff, and as I go through them, finding songs you arranged, notes and outlines that you wrote, and crazy hilarious little snippets of t-shirt ideas or bumper stickers, or bad parodies of Dostoevsky or Robert Louis Stevenson novels, I wonder if you ever slept. There’s enough stuff in these boxes to make twenty movies. And that doesn’t begin to go into the music that you recorded.

I have often thought that you knew what was going to happen and you knew that you only had so much time and so many things to do that you just would go and go and not ever stop until you’d pass out. You have written long manuscripts on the history of the way people think. There are what look like chemical formulas. There are scraps, little bits of this and that. I remember watching TV with you, a Will & Grace rerun, while we giggled and snarked. The whole time you were arranging some piece of music, writing notes and scratching them out, and also you were throwing a piece of wadded up paper for the cat to play with. Oh, and you kept an eye on tomorrow’s dinner in the oven. I have a hard enough time just clearing my head enough so that I can watch TV, but you were doing four – or five – things at once and that was when you were relaxing.

feeling my molly bloom

I only have a few minutes to get this in. sorry no time for spellcheck or good proofreading / editing or anything.

Tonight Monsieur when out to some musician’s get together; I stayed home as it was just for musicians, serious songwriter’s workshop thing. When he got back he showered and got in bed, and I spooned right up against him. He draped his arms around me in a certain way and I knew he wanted me. I moved against him trying not to be too eager but it’s been a week, as usual, since the last time, and I hadn’t had time to pleasure myself in days. I was rarin’ to go; I was a total wildcat, I had to bite my hand to keep quiet. I cooed and wiggled and played with myself and totally abandoned all to the feeling. I was getting close when he let out this sort of sigh/hiss sound and then gasped.

He started to apologize and I said, “shhh… For what?” and then I realized he came! It has been weeks, I don’t know how long since he’d done that, at least with me. He apologized and I told him he didn’t have a thing to apologize about.

With him softening inside me, his eyes burning into mine I kissed him and then he kissed me back, and I clenched on it and he sort of got up supporting himself on his arms so that we were only connecting in that one spot and he just held it there and I needed the movement but he held still so I started to masturbate and I really got into it! it was fun – carefree – and I got to giggling and being silly, not worrying about his orgasms, my adequacy or inadequacy, anything – and finally I stopped giggling and I dunno how, I just had a nice juicy one while he held me, and told me he wanted me to stay with him, for ever and forever, while I clenched my eyes to hold the tears and clenched my pussy, and finally let the tears (and him) slide out of me, and my heart was yearning like mad and “yes...” I said, “yes I will... yes.”

note: edited for spelling, and a link to tell you non-liberal arts majors what the hell the title of this post means.

Ideas that get away are quick, clever and unlikely to be captured alive.

Littlest Boy: Pepper?

Yearning Heart: Yes, Littlest Boy?

Littlest Boy: I had an undea.

Yearning Heart: What‘s an undea, sweetie?

Littlest Boy: It‘s an idea, but I forgot it. So, it got unrased. So, it‘s an undea.

Three Feet High and Rising

Happy MLK's Birthday.

No school today – partly because of the holiday, in which federal, state and bank employees get to stay home and celebrate their black heritage. Also because of the weather, as Canada decided to invade the Plains with 4 – 6 inches of “wintry mix” which froze immediately and downed power lines, trees, and random motorists.

Here’s a picture of the flood-level Blanco River, not far from us:

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the flood-level Blanco River

Water accumulated very quickly in the area, partly because the drought made the ground so bone-hard and impermeable that the water just sat on top of the fields, not soaking in. The water tried to run off but the rising creeks and rivers backed up the runoff, so the water just sat there.

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the water just sat there

Then the cold front really kicked in, dropping the temps today from its usual highs of 60° F to about 24° F. From our neighborhood clear up to the Arctic Circle, an ever-thicker blanket of ice is covering everything.

Instead of salting the roads here, they simply stay home, since it won’t last but a day or so. Monsieur is working with Skip the Gay Rancher right now, making sure that the private road is clear to the ranch road. Skip’s tractor is pretty well suited for hauling or towing.

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an ice-covered tree

I just heard from Monsieur a few minutes ago – he’s still in Skip’s tractor, and it would seem that there is more than one truck that can’t make it up the slippery frozen caliche road. So, Monsieur is a snow-plow operator, a search and rescue worker, and a taxi driver today.

The ground under the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice, so I have moved the chickens from the yard to the basement, and they’re not happy about it. They are pecking and fussing like, well, like old hens. The rooster is trying to argue his way out of his imprisonment. The cat has been locked in Bigglest Boy’s room. Bigglest Boy is up there with him, trying to convince him that it’s not a punishment, and that we didn’t inflict this storm on him out of spite. The Two Littlest Boys are coloring with crayons. Middlest Boy’s drawing is of Hoth, the Ice Planet. There are a couple of ATAT walkers, delivering the mail, and Luke Skywalker driving a John Deere tractor. Littlest Boy is calling his drawing “Brown,” which is a very apt description.

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the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice

Where have I been?

Well, I’ve been here. I’ve been busy and all, but that’s not really why I’ve been reluctant to post lately. I think it mostly has to do with the fact that Cat, with whom I went to high school, found my blog.

Hi, Cat!

Even though she PROMISED not to tell the whole world about it, and give away my secrets, I still feel very funny about it. I know that it’s not as if my dad found it, but still I feel funny talking about my feelings to the whole world now. Even though they’re very valid feelings, and nothing to be ashamed of, I have lost that sense of privacy/anonymity that I once had here. I know, with all the detail that I supply, it was bound to happen someday, right? And what was I to do once it did happen? Shut it down? Move it? Or pretend it never was discovered and keep going?

It’s not as though I’m really thinking clearly about all of it.

There’s this … other thing that’s been bothering me.

I’ve been getting the loving from Monsieur about once a week. It’s been very nice, and I really had nothing to complain about, but sometimes he was just getting me off and not getting himself off. I would not have noticed for quite a while but once recently, I guess it was after Thanksgiving. I’d had this mind-blowing orgasm and he stopped, slowing down deliciously first. I was going to flip over and ride him to try and get him off, too. Fair play, right? I mean, it’s his turn and all.

So there I was, cowgirling away with my thighs on either side of his waist. He was rubbing, pinching, teasing and caressing me, but I took his hands in mine and I leaned over him and whispered, “Don’t worry about me, darling. I’m done. Just go for it.”

That’s when Monsieur stopped. “I think I’m done as well,” he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me.

“Did you come?” I blurted out, surprised.

“Well...” he began, and trailed off. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling. He started to get up but I held him down.

“You don’t want to get off?” I asked him. “Or do you need me to do something else?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I don’t need more.”

So, I’ve sort of noticed that he doesn’t always get off. I guess I’ve been somewhat oblivious to the fact that the wet spot is usually all me, and none of him.

It didn’t bother me at first, but the next time we made love, I noticed it. Then the next time, then the next. No stain, no gain.

I don’t know why, but it bothered me. I was spending all this energy trying to get him to make love to me once a week, and once I started getting that, I guess something in me made me check to see if all was as it should be.

The next time, I said, “You didn’t come.”

“No,” he said, “but I’m all right.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think I am. I need this, too, sweetheart.”

“You need this, too?” he asked me.

“Yes, I do.” I was being firm, but gentle. “I really do. Now, if you can’t for some reason – if there’s something I’m not doing right, or something, please tell me.”

“Perhaps,” he said gently, “now is not the right time.” He kissed me, and tried to reassure me that it was him, not me, and he was fine with what we had. He loved me, he would take care of me, and so on.

I don’t want to nag him about it. I won’t nag him about it. It’s his body. It’s his choice, and he says he’s fine.

It’s not fine. I want that load. It’s mine, dammit. I earned it. Why does that seem so unreasonable? I feel like such a brat sometimes.

I guess … it’s how men feel if they didn’t get the girl off. Once, twice, it’s not a big deal but if it becomes a pattern I guess it just weighs on me. Sigh.

Xmas Haul

Well, the holidays are over and boy am I glad. It’s exhausting when three young boys are involved.

This year, we started a new concept for the holidays. For one thing, when the children made a Christmas list, it wasn’t about what they wanted to get, it was a list of things to give and people to give them to.

I got five great CD’s, a bunch of lovely books on classical art and classical music, about which I know nothing, but I need to learn it if I want to be in this family. Which, I do.

The other development has been that Monsieur asked me if I had a passport, and since I don’t, he paid for my application for one. I asked him if that meant we were traveling anywhere, and he said, “It is just in case I do need to travel, this time I would like for you and the boys to come along.”

Well, I thought, I can do that. I went to Kinko’s and had the photos made, and I still had an extra copy of my birth certificate. So, I gathered that all together and went to the post office one day, and I turned in the application and affirmed that I was an American. We’ll see if the State Department thinks I’m too dangerous to move freely.