Friday, August 29, 2008

Here, There, And Every Where

In the past few weeks, when all I would rather do is do it all at home, I've been doing here, there, and every where.

It's been a wild ride, lot's of fun, and totally exhausting. But worth it.

I don't mean sex. Sex? What is that anyway?

Between coming home from holidays, unpacking, preparing to send our 4 year-old to school, and did I mention re-packing to go away again, my head is spinning in a million different directions, and life couldn't feel any more chaotic.

I don't recall having sex since we were away on our holidays actually.

Nor have I had time to do anything else.

And, I know that I will survive, but I'm preparing my husband for the long days of - well sexless nights to come.

We're going to be spending the weekend in close quarters with family members, and our kids, and let's just say there will be no nooky unless we decide to do it in our car., that is so not going to happen.

I'll be lucky if I make it to bed to sleep, and get the kids to sleep in a strange place.

Quite frankly I'm completely exhausted. Travelling without kids is tiring enough, but with kids, that's a whole other story.

While I don't mind a dry spell when it comes to our sex life every so often, my husband is the total opposite, and as much as he wouldn't admit it, he turns into a Super Grumpy Hormonal Monster.

Some kind of weird Male PMS. Let's call it LOS (lack of sex).

His priorities when it comes to survival, as much as he may be reluctant to admit it are as follows:
1. Have sex.
2. Try to have more sex.
3. Grope, fondle, allow the little man below my belt to say his piece, and make sure that my wife knows that I want more sex.
4) Eat, Drink - I wonder if I could lick what I'm eating off my wife, or have her lick it off me? Maybe I could accidentally drop a piece of food down her shirt.
5) Sleep, after I've had sex, again.

Man, it must be a frustrating life, when you're a man that wants sex (the kind of sex you use to have when you were falling madly in love, and couldn't get enough of each other - oh and when you didn't have kids.)

And now, you just don't get as much of it as you want any more. Marriage, what a pooper. Poor guy, awe I feel so bad for you.

Not really, it's honeslty the least of my concerns.

If Mr. Grumpy Pants wants to pout, and be grumpy just because he's not getting any every once, and a while - well I guess he'll have to get to know his little friend the one eyed monster a little better, after all I'm sure he's not as tired, and in demand as his wife - Mom of 3.

What is it that they say? - In order to love others, you must first love yourself?

Well, I predict a whole lot of loving himself until life settles down. I've said my piece.

Off for the weekend with Mr. Grumpy Pants, wish me luck.


Mama of Romance

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Thursday, August 28, 2008

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Naughty Wednesday, Catch Up

I arrived home late last night, and just got our family, and our house settled again. But, I missed two Naughty Wednesday's in a row since I spend both of them in an airplane flying across the continent on our trip. So, I have some naughtiness to get caught up on.

Here's the joke:

Two men are hanging out together watching television, and one of them is getting married soon.

The married man asks, "So are you sure you want to get married? Marriage changes everything you know."

The other guy says, "Yeah absolutely, then we'll be able to sleep together every night, and have sex as much as we want to."

The married man says, "Yeah - right. Once you get married, that's the end of a perfectly good sex life, you can be sure of that."

The other guy says, "Well we have sex a lot now, and we've been together for a long time. I don't see how things could possible change, just because we are getting married."

The married man says, "Believe me, before I got married, my wife was like a well trained dog who did all kinds of tricks; standing up on two feet, catching things in her mouth, you name it. The sex was great! Now, I have to beg for sex, and the only trick she knows is how to roll over, and play dead."


Mama of Romance

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Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Mile High In The Mountains?

So it's the last day of our vacation, and we decided to go hiking up a mountain. Nothing like tiring a Mom out, just before coming home to a week worth of laundry, messes, and excitable kids.

We were hoping to rock hound a little for some semi-precious gemstones that are local to the area, or perhaps uncover some fossils to give to our kids, but we came back empty handed.

The heat was overpowering, and the hike was exhausting. But we finally got to the top.

As we sat there, looking 360 degrees around us, the breeze blowing on our faces, I thought "Wow, it doesn't get any better than this."

And, as I turned from looking at the amazing view, and our astonishing solitude, I looked at my husband.

His face said it all: "This is great - but, there's one thing that would make this perfect."

I shook my head, because I knew the look on his face meant that he wanted to have sex.

No, no, no, no, no.

What, here on the mountain top, on the edge, where when you look down it drops straight to the bottom?

Sure, like making love at home with the kids interrupting our intimate time isn't awkward enough!

I can handle tip-toeing toddlers, but sex on a ledge covered with bird poo, uuugghh.

Looking at him, I thought, "Wipe that smirk off your face Mr., you are so not getting any."

But then I looked around us again, and it hit me.

Not only were we completely alone for miles, and miles, but this could possibly be our only time ever to be together to enjoy ourselves alone, without interruption, and in such a place of beauty.

Not like we can ever hike up this kind of a mountain without our kids when we go home - there are no mountains like this at home!

Okay, so I caved, I gave in, I folded - after all, he lucked out on the plane ride here, and I knew he wanted it sooo bad.

Blushing still, I can't believe we did it.

Sometimes I think that the most healthy thing for a relationship is to do the things that you're least likely to do, and to make amazing memories together.

Just because I'm a Mom, doesn't mean that every day has to be ordinary, it can still be extraordinary too (sometimes).


Mama of Romance

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Chapter Three

I invite you to read Chapter One, and Chapter Two if you haven't already, and if would like to follow along with the story. Read Chapter One. Read Chapter Two.


Waking, I have a severe headache, I’ve had one for weeks. I get out of bed, and get dressed, gather my things, hop in the car, go pick up Mom, help her into the car, and away we go again.

Arriving at the entrance, I walk her in, get her into a wheelchair, park the car three blocks away, and run back to her. I push her down the hall with the artwork, and leave her in the care of the nurse with smiley faces on the fluorescent tie-dyed uniform.

Sitting in the waiting room, I crochet, trying to finish the blanket that I started for Mom when this whole mess began. Double, double, double, double, skip two, double, double, double, double, three doubles…. Until finally my hands are stiff, my finger callused, and my eyes now tired begin to close.

I can still see his old blue, and rusty Oldsmobile slowly pull into the driveway as I awoke from that long fixated gaze. The sound of the gravel resonated through the entire house as it was being flicked up, and tossed by the turning wheels of his car. I jumped up, and briskly paced around the room, nervously pulling down on the bottom seam of my shirt, and pushing back my neatly brushed hair. Regaining my composure, I focused on what I was about to say. Finally, the doorbell rang. As I opened the door, leaning against the door frame stood my drunken father about to fall forward on top of me, with a smug smile on his red face. The tears started to well up in my eyes, but I forced them away, took a deep breath, and without a second thought I loudly said:

“Dad, I can’t believe you. You’re drunk. What are you thinking? Driving all the way out here? You think I’m going to go with you? Like this?”

My father stood upright, and under his breath, stinking of scotch, he mumbled

“Fine - don’t come with me…I’ll just drive home by myself.” His words were slurred. He stood for a moment as if frozen, waiting for his body to follow his mind’s instructions to turn, and walk away. The lapse in time for him to react truly reflected how terribly drunk he was. His eyes were glazed over with a cloudy film, and blood shot. He made me so angry, he wasn’t even looking me in the eye. Then turning slowly, scraping his shoulder alongside the stone exterior of the house, he staggered down the front steps, almost falling onto the concrete. Surely he’d be scraped, and bruised tomorrow. As he continued windingly down the path, his body slumped, and in clothes that he had probably worn all week, I felt sickened. How could he really be my father?

I didn’t know what to do. Smart enough to know better than to drive with him in his state, I thought: what about all the other cars on the road? What if he killed someone - a whole family, an old lady? I couldn’t live with that. And, as astonishing as it was, I also loved him too much to let him go, and I was unable to bare the thought that I might lose him. Like my mother, I wanted desperately to help him, even if he was beyond all help, and even though I knew I couldn’t change him. Upon any opportunity in the past however, I was eager to try to save him, and change him, and each time I failed, miserably. Wiser than my years, I knew better.

However, I was only twelve years old. I should have stopped right there, ran back into the house, picked up the phone, and called the police. But instead, I ran after him. I pulled open the beat up passenger side door, and threw myself into the filthy seat. Before I could even put on my seatbelt, my dad had slammed on the gas, was darting out the driveway, and onto the highway. I was scared.

“Dad, pull over!” I yelled. But he didn’t hear me. He looked so angry. He was starring straight ahead, and driving way too fast.

“Pull over!” I screamed. The tears were now pouring out of my eyes.

“You’re going to kill someone!” I exclaimed, but my demands went unanswered.

Forcing myself to a calm, I quietly said, “we could die” as I gently pulled on the sleeve of his plaid, worn shirt. Tears continued to pour down off my face. But his firm grip didn’t loosen off the stirring wheel, his knuckles were white as he squeezed the wheel with all of his strength. He was in an entirely different world, and had no idea that I was even sitting there, right beside him.

The expression on his face frightened me. A memory of that exact same face now displays in my mind.

I was tucked into the top bunk of my bunk beds when I heard my mom, and dad yelling at each other, again. I can picture the view from atop those bunks looking past my flowery comforter, and past my lilac coloured room, whose colour had darkened in the evening light. Streaming from the hallway came a path of light, and the loudening voices. I was used to hearing them yell at each other, it happened almost every day. Mom was always mad at him because of his drinking. Even at four years old, I knew it wasn’t normal to see my father passed out on the couch, sometimes even before supper.

Tonight the yelling was really bad. It normally slowly came to a calm with mom storming off into her room, and the door slamming shut. Instead it kept escalating, and I sat up straight in my bed to listen to the fight. My father’s voice was full of anger, then it escalated to rage. I tightly clasped onto my blankets, and to my doll, Nina. He began to yell so loudly that he was gasping for breaths. I had never heard my father get this angry before. He was a quiet man, never yelling at me - no matter how mad he was.

All of a sudden there was silence. Normally that would assure me that the fight was over, but tonight something was different. Tonight the silence struck me with fear. I climbed down from my bed, and ran to the kitchen. It was as if by mere instincts I was being driven forward, knowing something was terribly wrong. I’ll never forget what I saw, ever.

My father was on top of my mother, with his legs on either side of her waist, holding her neck between his strong, tensed hands, and banging her head violently on the floor, over, and over, and over again. Her head was beating down on the floor like a drum. He was going to kill her. I ran over to him, and without even thinking, I’m not sure if it was out of fear, or desperation, but

I crouched down on the floor, and bit his ankle so hard that he let out a loud piercing scream. He let go of my mother instantly, and jumped up. In one swoop, he picked me up, and carried me across the room, opened the garage door, and dropped me on to the cold cement floor.

I never beat on anything as hard as I beat on that door. And I never screamed louder than I screamed for him to let me in. It seemed like forever that I stood outside that door. I didn’t know if my mother was alive or dead.

“She’s all done now. She did well today,” says the nurse in the green frog print uniform. Bringing myself back to reality, I put my crocheting in my bag, take Mom’s arm, and help her into the wheelchair. I push her down the hall covered with the art work, to the door.

“I’ll be right back Mom. Try to rest.” I say, as I walk out the door, and run to the car. The cool breeze hits my face. All I can hear is the sound of my feet beating down on the pavement. I pick up my mom, take her home, and go home myself.

The next day, I get up, and do the same. Sitting down in the waiting area, I get out my crocheting, and continue to work on her blanket. It’s white, and I think it has a heavenly design.

I hope I can finish it on time. A half hour passes, I’m tired again, and I close my eyes.
I remember waiting in that garage for what seemed like forever. The door flew open, and I fell inside the house. But it wasn’t my father I saw, it was my mom. She grabbed me, and quickly ran with me in her arms to the car, putting me inside, and handing me the seatbelt, signaling me to buckle up.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” she said. I didn’t move, or breath. I sat, starring at the door., wondering if I’d ever see her again.

The next time I saw my mother, it was when she came flying out onto the cement floor of the garage face first. My father kicked her in the tail bone so hard, that for the rest of her life she would have bladder problems, and severe lower back pain, but that was the least of her concerns. We got away, we were safe now, and we were both alive.

So when my mom told me that my parents couldn’t be together any more, that was ok. In fact, I thanked God that they weren’t together any more, and that I still had my mom here to look after me.

I remember, with all my heart sitting in that car, I wished Mom was with me, to get us all out of that terrifying situation. She would have know what to do, she probably wouldn’t have gotten into the car in the first place.

The car swerved back and forth along the road, flirting with the center line. I wondered if these would be the last few moments of my life. I felt totally helpless. Then as the car veered too close to the left, an on-coming truck honked his horn at us. But it didn’t even phase my father. He continued to stare out the windshield, at what I don’t know.

Again, I tried to think of what I could do, but found myself now totally overwhelmed with a fear that was simply paralyzing. Like a dream, I could vaguely see another oncoming car abruptly jerk to the side, and just miss us by traveling half on the gravel shoulder of the road. I sat there in a daze, with my eyes fixed on the road, tears streaming down onto my chest. The car was now completely over the center line, and we were going around a bend. I closed my eyes praying that another car wasn’t coming around the corner, imagining.

I would never see the car that hit us. My father stands over my coffin at my funeral, and promises to never take another drink again. He lives the rest of his life sober, but alone, in a deep depression, unable to face what he did.
I open my eyes quickly, and all of a sudden as if by some saving grace, I know exactly what to do to avoid the crash. As soon as the passenger side door opens, my father’s unwavering stare is broken, his attention finally no longer concentrated into total nothingness, and he looks over at me, panicked.
“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m getting out, you’re crazy, I want out” I said.
“Shut the door, the cars moving” he barked.

“I want you to stop right now, or I’ll jump out, and it will be your fault if I get hurt.” I said severely, and I meant it.

“Get in, get in.” he urged, as the car began to slow, gradually moving to the side of the road. I still kept the car door open. Just then a big transport came sailing around the corner a little on our side of the road. I could feel the immense gust of wind. I began to tremble, and started bawling my eyes out, knowing that just as I had imagined, in an instant, we could have died. The car was now completely stopped, and my father was sitting slouched in silence, looking down at his lap, his mouth slightly open, and eyes wanting to close. Rage filled me. How could he be so irresponsible, so stupid!?

“Are you out of your mind! We could have been killed!” my voice echoed from its’ intensity. I never knew I could get so mad.
“Dad, get out of the car.” I demanded.

My father looked up at me with a blank stare on his face, about to cry and with his shivering lips quietly he whispered “I’m sorry.”

He got out of the car obediently, and walked around the hood of the vehicle, using it for balance.

Climbing into the passenger side, with a clunk he fell into the seat, and he began to weep. I’d never driven a car before. I learnt quickly - I had to.
When we arrived at his house, I darted up to my bedroom, and sat in anger on my cat-hair covered, mismatched bedding thinking about what I wanted to say to my father once he sobered up. Downstairs, he passed out in his ratty old green, fake leather armchair, snoring.


That was Chapter Three, of the story. I will post the next Chapter in a day, or two. All the Chapters will be available along the sidebar as I post them.

I would love some feedback, good or bad.

Thank you for reading along with the story.


Mama of Romance

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Sunday, August 24, 2008

2 In The Bed And The Little One Said, Roll Over

Moms can all certainly attest to trying to be intimate with their partner, and just as things are finally getting steamy, being interrupted by a little person who on cue comes into the room.

I can remember laying in bed kissing, when all of a sudden right behind my head, I heard:

"Mommy, I had a bed dream."

I almost peed the bed, and bit off my husband's lip.

What's worse though, is when the kids come into our room, walk right up to the bed, and stand there quietly.

Call me crazy, but I have visions of the Chucky movie in my head - I think it has something to do with the height of my kids, and seeing their silhouette in the I am such a scaredy cat.

My husband, was probably thinking, "Go play with the scary monster in your bedroom that you dreamt about, cause Mom and I are busy."

But, when my kids have a bad dream, I like to cuddle with them for a few minutes, say goodnight, and tuck them back into their own beds.

With 3 kids, between baby crying, 2 year-old wandering around the house aimlessly, and 4 year-old's bad dreams, sometimes being intimate is next to impossible.

What's more, is how it makes a Mom feel.

I know that when I'm laying in bed with my husband, I'm often peering over his shoulder out into the hallway, waiting for someone to appear. In the back of my mind, all I can think of is, "Are we going to have a 2 or 3-foot tall audience tonight, should I prepare myself for being startled?"

My husband will sometimes turn to me, and ask "What are you thinking about?" Or, "Why are you not into this?"

He doesn't understand that I don't want to scar my children by having them catch us having sex. And, that wondering if I'm going to be caught off guard by a mini human being is enough to have a Mom feeling tense.

I don't like the thought of having spectators, especially my children. It has me cringing, and feeling like I ought to do whatever I can to prevent it from happening.

So what do you do?

You certainly can't predict how kids are going to act. I get no warning most of the time when my kids come into our room because they creep so quietly around - in fact, sometimes I wonder how they can navigate so quietly around in the pitch dark.

I also don't like to close the door because, then I really can't hear them, and worry that they might try to get open the gate at the top of our stairs, and fall down.

Our solution...

Either we make love downstairs, where we can hear the pitter patter of little feet walking around, or we leave our door open with the lights turned off.

I prefer the first, because then at least I can hear them coming before I see them.

But, my guard will never be down, and I'm not ready to have the "birds and the bees" talk with my 4 year-old just yet.

So until our kids know that they have to knock before coming into our room, and I can finally feel comfortable shutting our door, hubbie is going to have to accept that I'm not going to be playing the role of Passionate, Sex Goddess Woman, but rather Mom who can still be sexy, and yes does have her mind on a few other things at the same time.

Better than a blow up doll anyway, right?


Mama of Romance

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Saturday, August 23, 2008

Sexy Tip #6 For Moms

A sexy little note.

Nothing is more intriguing, romantic, and surprising as finding a sexy little note tucked some where for your partner to find.

I can remember my absolute favourite one. I was taking a long deserved shower, and the kids were all in bed.

At the end of my shower, I drew the curtain open to grab my towel, and low and behold on the toilet seat was a little note.
It read:

"You are the love of my life, a wonderful wife, and mother, you mean so much to me, please come and meet me upstairs."

Now, this little note however little, certainly held an immense meaning, and had me melting inside. My partner took the time, and the thought to surprise me, to be romantic, and to say the words too often that go unsaid.

When I went upstairs, I walked into a room lit with candles, and strawberries, and my wonderful husband who for tonight was sweeping me off of my feet.

All it takes is a few words. Romantic, or sexy.

I know a little note is a great way for surprising my husband, when I might write something like:

“You are so hot, and I want to rip all of your clothes off, and make you feel good.”

It drives him wild.

I think that writing notes, is something that has been lost in time, is so easy, and is a great way to portray whatever it is that you want to say, with a lot of impact.


Mama of Romance

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Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Mile High Club Here We Come, Or Not

Okay, so my husband and I are headed off for our very first trip since we started having kids almost 5 years ago.

I've only ever been on an airplane a handful of times, and only once with my husband, but back then he and I were just dating.

I KNOW that my husband wants to become a part of the Mile High Club, it's only one of his most favorite fantasies.

But, I have to say, how could it even be possible!?

The last time that I was on an airplane was with my husband back when we were dating, and I won't lie, the thought crossed my mind - and his.

I can remember, as we sat there on the plane, looking up and down the rows of seats, and eyeing the only two accessible washrooms. Neither of us could figure out how becoming a part of the Club would ever be possible without standing up infront of the other passengers to make an announcement:

"Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen. While the Captain continues to fly us on his mary way, my lover here and I are going to occupy bathroom A for a quick romp. Please stay seated, and calm, and we'll see you back here in about, 2 minutes."

The stuardists kept walking back, and forth, not to mention the bathroom was almost always occupied, with someone standing outside the door, waiting for their turn to relieve themselves.

I'm not too crazy about the idea of having sex where other people take a dump, and are air sick anyway, but I do know that such a risky venture would sure to be imprinted in my husbands mind for as long as we live, and would forever bring a smile to his smutten face.

So what's a girl to do? I guess we'll just have to wait to find out.

I'm on vacation until Wednesday, August 27th - and I will try my best to continue posting as long as the internet connection is aggreeable, oh and my dear husband, lol.


Mama of Romance

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Worst Habits Ever...The Results Are In!

So I just recently wrote a post Worst Habit Ever...Can You Beat It?, and some extremely kind ladies got back to me about their partner's absolutely most gross, displeasing, and nasty habits.

And, let me tell you there's a few that just have me cringing, and being thankful that my husband might not be so bad after all.

Who am I kidding? All men can be...well you know................

So here's the Top 10 grossest habits ever, I hope that you enjoy - or at least get a sense that you might not be so bad off after all!

I'm sure that us Moms have some pretty good habits that take the cake as well...but we'll keep those to ourselves, for now.

3 Undressing anywhere and leaving clothes there.
5 Leaving dirty bandaids everywhere.
And, the Top 10 grossest habit goes to........

Thank you everyone who contributed to this gross list, and I hope that you have a great day!

Mama of Romance

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Monday, August 18, 2008

Chapter Two

I invite you to read Chapter One, if you haven't already, and if would like to follow along with the story. Read Chapter One.


My mom, and I were always there for each other. We had a bond that was stronger than any bond imaginable between a mother, and her child. Not only was she my mom, she was my very best friend. One time, to tell her just that, I had written her a poem, that I now know by heart. She loved it so much, that she got it mounted onto a plaque, and hung it up on the kitchen wall so she could read it every day. It read:

Mom, You Are So Special

All of this time, all the love and the care
Have made me realize that you’ll always be there
For when I need you, or when I’m sad
You’re there right beside me, for that I am glad
Sometimes you forget, you’re more than a Mom to me
You’re a friend, a role model, and a hero you see
So this is a small token of my love for you
Saying things often unspoken you already knew

She told me everything. At times, more than I wanted to know; every truth, since I was so little, that others would argue I was too little to understand. She was teaching me the alphabet before I could sit up, and talking to me like I was an adult from the day I was born. She was completely honest with me. While some parents might think it best to keep their child from knowing something in an attempt to protect them, she would do the exact opposite; believing that in order to protect me, I needed to know the truth. I remember when my parents split up, she told me the truth, explaining:

“Dumplin, your father and I have to be apart now, he can’t live with us any more - but it’s for the best. You see, we don’t get along any more, and we’re much happier when we’re apart. He’s going to live with Nana and Grandpa now, and you’ll get to visit him every second weekend, okay?”

“Yes Mommy.” I answered, understanding completely. I knew exactly why things had turned out the way they had. Knowing not only why my parents were apart, but also that my father was completely, and utterly unreliable, for anything. That was why I was left sitting alone on that window seat, waiting for so long.
At least I was inside a warm house, although I still shiver at the reminder of that very sad, cold day when I was younger. I might have called Mom to tell her that he hadn’t shown up, but this time I wanted to deal with him by myself. Maybe I was the only one who could get through to him. My parents hardly spoke, and it was for that reason that Mom often made herself scarce before Dad came to pick me up.

“She’s all finished now” says the kind nurse in the pale pink uniform, guiding my mom towards me with a gentle hand. I snap out of the deep thought I was in, put my crocheting in my bag, and take my mother’s arm. She’s really weak now. Her body looks so feeble, and old - but she is not, she’s only fifty-six. I help her into the wheelchair, and push her down the hall. All of the halls here look the same; all a bland, strange pink colour. Not a nice pink, but rather a dismal shade that has you wondering if the whole building had to be one colour, why someone wouldn‘t have picked a nicer one.

This place is like a maze with all it’s seemingly endless corridors, that all look identical. If it weren’t for the beautiful art work which covers the walls of the last corridor we travel to get out of this place, we would be forever lost. I look up to study the paintings as we pass by, each time capturing just a little more of their detail. Light shines through the glass ceiling, and makes the paintings all seem even more brilliant, and warms my face. All of these things I would normally never pay any attention too while I would race on by. We continue walking, back to the door from which we came. I stop pushing the wheelchair, and walk around my mother, who’s body is droopy in it’s seat. Her clothes are all wrinkled, their fabric gathered, and folded because her body simply doesn’t fill them any more.
“Mom, I’m just going to get the car, I’ll be right back.” I said.

We’ve been coming here every day for the past two weeks, and I’ve run out of money to pay for parking. I don’t want to bother her about it, so I have her wait at the door while I park the car three blocks away where the parking is free. I don’t think she notices, and I find the jog refreshing - it seems to be the only time I have peace from the thoughts, and worries that consume me.

It‘s been a very long day. Beginning to run I clasp my bag, tightly pressing it’s bulgy contents against my side. I grow hotter, and hotter even though the breeze is blowing directly in my face. As I reach the car, a bead of sweat begins to gather just under my bangs ready to trickle down.

Into the car I get, and drive back to the door.

No one seems to be in a rush today. A lady walks across the road in front of me, a cigarette hanging from her mouth, as she searches inside her purse for something to light it with I assume.

She’s not even paying attention to the cars, or to crossing the road. What a gross habit, does she not realize what it will do to her?

I get to the entrance, stop the car, turn off the ignition, flick on my hazard lights, quickly get out of the car, and go through the revolving glass doors. Turning to look back outside, I see that already there are cars who have lined up behind me. They don’t seem to mind to wait, but I still feel rushed because I know how slow it will be t o get Mom into the car. As I walk with her, my arm supporting her, she wobbles a little, her ankle buckles over her white sneaker. Catching her, and straightening her up to regain her balance, she feels light, like the wind could blow her over.

I open the passenger side door, and protect her head, as I lower her carefully into the seat, and then run around the car, and hop in myself.

As I drive I avoid thinking of how mom is half the weight she used to be, and looks almost twice as old. I avoid thinking about how the car is silent. She doesn’t try to talk any more. My entire life she has always talked so much, often asking me so many questions that I would end up saying:

“Alright Mom, that’s enough, stop bugging me!”

I wish she would bug me now, or just say anything at all. In fact, I feel sorry for having thought, and having said that she was bugging me at all. I guess there are a lot of times that I now feel sorry for. Like when she used to come into my bedroom in the morning to say good morning, and tell me it’s time to get ready for school, and I would yell at her to “Leave me alone, I’ll get up in a few minutes.” She knew that a few minutes would turn into hours if she didn’t persist. I could be so grouchy in the morning when she woke me up, but I think now how my behaviour was inexcusable. I should have been nicer. She was only trying to help me, so I wouldn’t be late. It’s strangely disturbing how we can be meaner to the people we love, than to total strangers we’ve only just met.

We arrive at home, I walk her inside, and tuck her into bed. Her room has always looked the same for as long as I can remember, except now the furnitrure has all been rearranged to allow her to be closer to the bathroom.

“Do you need anything Mom?” I ask.

She shakes her head, rests it on her pillow, and closes her eyes.

“Good Bye. I love you.” I say quietly, and leave.

On the way home, I think of how much I hate that this time that I’m spending with my mom is so hazy, like I’m on auto-pilot, only doing what is required of me, and as though I can see myself going through the motions from afar. I’ve been thinking about all kinds of unimportant things, that don’t matter at all, when really I should be paying attention to what really matters - my mom. I try to think of how I can make the time we spend together more meaningful, and agree that I’ll try harder tomorrow. Exhausted, my head hits the pillow, and I sleep.


That was Chapter Two, of the story. I will post the next Chapter in a day, or two. All the Chapters will be available along the sidebar as I post them.

I would love some feedback, good or bad.

Thank you for reading along with the story.


Mama of Romance

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Better Than a Blow-Up Doll

Over the weekend, we went hiking, hiking, and hiking.

Boy, was it exhausting.

I had my 10 month-old on my back, and at times carried my 2 year-old, while my husband carried our 4 year-old that got stung by a bee, and all of our gear.

We had a great time, and spent some much needed family time together, but when we got home I could hardly move.

I was pooped.

My husband always asks, "you pooped?"

And, I say, "No Dear, I didn't poop. I am pooped. As in, I'm tired."

Like I'm the only one who's ever heard this expression before.

Anyway, after our hiking trip, I was exhausted. We put the kids to bed, and I barely got into bed myself.

The moment my body hit the bed, I could no longer move, and hardly speak. My body felt like it weighed a million pounds. I was that tired.

As a Mom, there's lots of reasons to get this tired.

Whether it's staying up all night with the kids, being sick yourself, being up with sick kids, getting hurt, or just doing everything that you always have to do as a Mom, sometimes at the end of the day you feel like you can no longer function.

Well, that was me.

Some where is my cloudy, sleepy head I wished that my husband would just kiss my forehead, cover me up with a blanket, and let me sleep.

My husband however, was bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed, and I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't going to stop bothering me until we had sex. He would toss, and turn all night long, unable to sleep, and keep me awake if he didn't do something about his er - something.

I would settle for getting the sex over with so I could sleep.

I don't mean that he did this in a bully-fashion, more like an excitable dog humping your leg kind of fashion. The other would NOT be acceptable under any circumstances.

He was such a great husband, and father all weekend, he just is - if I could move, or anything I would want to express my love for him.

Instead, I just slurred, "I'm sorry Dear, I can't move, love you though."

He never heard the magic word "NO, so he said, "does that mean we can have sex then?"

If he were a dog, he would be salivating, and panting at the thought that there was a tiny chance he was going to get some meat.

"Whatever." Was all that I could muster, just about to fall asleep.

So he went ahead, and I said to him again that I was sorry that I could do nothing, but lay there.

And, do you know what he said!?

"Well, at least you're better than a blow-up doll."

I think that he must have been thinking out loud during that moment, but man did I wake up the instant that I heard those words!

He's never used a blow-up doll, nor does he have one, and I felt bad until that instant - what a thing to say!

Talk about all romance going out the window...sometimes, okay - always I wish that he would keep these kinds of thoughts to himself.

Whatever happened to romance, etiquette, chilvary, being a gentleman, and all those other qualities from the good Ol' days?

I guess they disappeared along with writing letters to people, spending Sunday's visiting people, going to dances, and all that other good stuff from way back when.


Mama of Romance

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Sex Diaries of a Mom Receives An Award!

What a way to start the week, with Sex Diaries of a Mom receiving another award!

I want to Thank Petra over at The Wise (*Young*) Mommy for giving Sex Diaries of a Mom an award for Brillante Weblog!!

Sharing in on the excitement, I'd like to award 7 fellow bloggers with an award as well:

1. Heather of Maternal Spark
2. Cheryl of The Daily Blonde
3. Ann of Ann again...and again
4. The Mom over at Thirtysomething Reality
5. Sammi of Little Ladybugs
6. Lori of a Cowboy's Wife
7. Melanie of Straight to Your Hart

I hope that the recognition will be passed on, and on!

Thanks again Petra!


Mama of Romance

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Saturday, August 16, 2008

Worst Habit Ever - Can You Beat It?

For me it's toenail clippings, peeing in the shower, and leaving smelly socks all over the house.

Not me, I'm not the one that does these things, it's my better - I mean other half.

So what gets you going? Is there something that your partner does that really gets on your nerves? tell by commenting below.

I would like to feature the TOP worst habits in an upcoming that we can all see who's got the worst half, so to speak - (it's all in fun).

When you share your partner's smelly, atrocious, filthy - whatever, habits below, I will be sure to link back to you.


Mama of Romance

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Sex Diaries of a Mom's 1st Award

I am so honoured that Sammi of Little Lady Bugs has awarded Sex Diaries of a Mom with their very 1st award!!

So thank you very much Sammi!

I wanted to pass along the appreciation to some other awesome Mom Blogger's.

So, here are the rules* Let em' know in your post or via email, twitter or blog comments that they've received an award* Share the love and link back to both the person who awarded you and back to MammaDawg. Hop on back to the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky then pass it on (which you can also get to on the above link).

Here's my picks for the Kick %*# Blogger...

1. Jen of Cheaper Than Therapy
2. Rachel of Following in My Shoes
3. Petra of The Wise Young Mommy
4. The Mom at Our Crooked Tree

This was so hard to decide...and I wish I had more spots to fill, I have so many favorites!


Mama of Romance

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Chapter One

My father hadn’t called, and he was supposed to pick me up over two hours ago. I sat in the kitchen window seat pressed up against the cold glass, watching my breath fog the window each time I exhaled. My forehead pounded from the cold. Fixed in that spot for fear that I might miss him pulling in the driveway, I rehearsed over, and over exactly how the conversation would go once he arrived. Like I was the parent, and he the child, I was preparing to scold him for his poor, inexplicable behaviour. This wasn’t the first time, and not likely to be the last, but this time I wouldn’t cry - I was going to be mad.

I had been forgotten before, however it had been far worse. Only four years old, I got off the school bus on a blisteringly cold, snowy winter day; the kind where you’d rather be cuddled up by a warm fire. I walked down the long driveway, up the walkway, and up the snow covered steps. When I got to the front door, and turned the cold steal knob, it didn’t open. It was locked.

Surely Dad had just forgot to unlock it when he got home. I envisioned him resting on the couch after a long day, or just finishing up in the bathroom, the toilet flushing, and on his way over to open the door. Continuing to justify the situation, I thought about how the door was understandably locked, since he parked his car in the garage, and entered the house that way.

I knocked on the door. There was no answer. The wind blew the snow around with such force that even standing on the sheltered porch, I could feel the freezing air travel up the back of my coat. I rang the doorbell, no answer. The silence was clear, except for the cold harsh melody of the wind. It’s amazing how the sounds around your own home, where you normally feel so safe, can be so scary in the midst of a cold, and windy snow storm - especially when you‘re all alone. I knock again, and again. I rang again, and again. Still, there was no answer. The creaking, and howling have me shuddering, not alone from the cold, but out of fear as well. Finally, I realized that he forgot me. I was forgotten.

Panicked, I felt terribly alone, and cried until I hadn’t a single tear left to shed; either because I stood there crying for so long, or because it was so cold, perhaps both. Struggling to pull myself together, I could hear my mother’s voice reassuring me: “Crying isn’t going to make anything better. Just take a deep breathe.” As I drew in a few deep breathes, I remembered Mom had told me there was a spare key under the bush, beside the walkway.

I climbed down the steps, and waded through the snow. It was past my knees, and dropping into my boots. I began to dig with my bare hands where I thought the bush might be, but it was just a small bush, and was now covered up entirely with snow. Where were my mitts? Of all the days, I had forgotten my snow pants at school as well. My freezing cold, crisp jeans felt stiff against my bare legs. I continued to dig without success, not able to find the bush, let alone a key. Frantically, I choose another spot to dig, and then another. The snow was heavy, and packed down hard; especially here, as it was directly below where the snow came falling off the roof. The snow felt like it weighed a million pounds. I loosened clumps of it by kicking it with my boot, and scrapped at it with my fingernails. My hands were a reddish-purple, beginning to burn, and pulsate from the cold.

Exhausted, and nearly frozen, I decided that it was hopeless. I sat down on the top step, cushioned by the snow, shivering. My head hung between my knees to block the wind, as I waited for my mom to get home.

After I had gotten warmed up, and I was comforted by my mother, and her warming embrace, she and I picked a better spot to hide our spare key. A spot where no matter how much snow there was, I would be able to get to the key in the event that I was ever locked out again. I can still feel my mother’s hug - there was nothing else like it, and nothing at all better. Just one hug, and your heart would be warmed, and you’d feel better no matter how terrible you might have been feeling before - if a Mother’s hug could be bottled, it would be the world’s greatest medicine.


That was Chapter One, of the story. I will post the next Chapter in a day, or two. All the Chapters will be available along the sidebar as I post them.

I would love some feedback, good or bad.


Mama of Romance

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