My readership seems to have been lacking lately, so I thought I was being too depressing and should talk about something EVERYONE can get behind…no pun intended. Sex. Or more to the point, how you have sex while living with your husband’s family in the basement.
I will admit the other day we did it outside.Not recommended in sub zero temperatures. It lasted about 5 seconds, though the shivering lasted much longer.
Inside, you must be VERY quiet. Like press a pillow over your mouth quiet. Like turn on the fan, the TV, and the radio. Do not make any sudden movements. It is not recommended to try anything different, for you never know when chaos could ensue.
MAKE SURE THE DOOR IS CLOSED AND PREFERABLY LOCKED. Nothing kills the mood like your MIL witnessing your body all contorted weirdly and no matter what your husband says, you totally look weird.
The room must be pitch black, so you can feign sleep if anyone comes in. Explain away your heavy breathing with something like “Man, some guy was chasing me in my dream!” In this same vein, save the sexy outfits a T shirt will suffice and he doesn’t care anyway, he’s getting some.
Hopefully some of these bits will come in handy, but what I hope most for you is that you don’t ever have to live in the basement.
I watch you, when you don’t realize that I’m looking; your still chubby fingers, your cheeks still slightly rounded and rosy red. When you were a baby I used to kiss the freckle on your stomach, right by your belly button. I used to stare at the swirl of perfect hair at the back of your neck, softly stroking the miracle of you. I still see that baby when I look at you, superimposed upon the toddler that you grew into, the boy you are now. I wonder what you will be, what your passions will become and how you will do in school.
I worry that your dad and I have made too many mistakes and that we’ve messed you up forever. I feel guilty about all that we’ve put you through; you’ve seen too many arguments, lived in too many places, lost too many things. Still you are happy, pulling joy out of whatever is available to you and making it your own, even if it’s just that you got to eat a peanut butter and jelly for dinner.
The other day you were concerned that I didn’t get to tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas, and I told you that all I really wanted was for you to be happy.
“That’s great, Mom!” you said, lighting up,”then you already got your present, because I’m happy right now!”
Saying this standing in your aunt’s kitchen because we don’t have a place of our own, the sunlight catching the sparkle in your eyes, and you are already happy and there is nothing else that I could ever want.
Watching you sleep at night your fingers twitch and rub your special blanket; you are busy even at rest. I have always told you that I love you more than the moon and the sun and the stars in the sky; these words are inadequate and will never do the trick. You are my everything.
He is red cheeked and drippy nosed in the cold, his face upturned as flakes fall. We can’t find any boots in his size, nor gloves, so make due with a pair of his old tennis shoes and some plastic bags, a pair of women’s gloves. I tell him how my mom did the same thing to me, wrapping his feet snugly in a grocery bag. Outside, his laugh is clear in the crystal air, and that silence that only comes with snow is broken. He leaves tracks in the freshly fallen snow, letting me know that no one else has walked there and he’s the only one that can ever walk there again. I agree. He scoops up snow in his gloved hand, and POW, he blasts me with a snowball in the waist. It’s war, and I chase him with half formed balls until we are breathless. I show him how to drag his feet and make a pattern in the snow, and we write names, his, mine, Daddy. He helps his father shovel the sidewalk for a minute, then stands in front of his dad so that he can toss a shovelful of snow up in the air and let it land all around him. We try and make a snowman, but it won’t pack correctly and we abandon the project before we start. I try and make a mini one on top of the trash can, but that doesn’t work either. He smacks me in the back with another snowball, and his glee rings out, music to my ears. Our fingertips are getting numb and our feet are aching, but he doesn’t want to go in yet. There are still unexplored portions of perfect snow. He looks like a little cherub, all bundled up and stumbling around in too many clothes. His grandmother waves from the window, and he proudly shows off his snow work. We head inside, abandoning our clothes right inside the door. I offer him hot chocolate but he opts for chocolate milk. Our wet clothes are in a sopping pile on the landing, but I’ll get to them later. Right now I will sit next to him, he with his milk and I with my hot chocolate, and we will talk excitedly about all we did outside int he snow.
Last night Cole and I had an inpromptu dance party. We danced madly, twirling and spinning with all of our might. He jumped up and down, a grin shining, and wanted me to spin him, so spin him I did, round and round until we were both so dizzy and breathless we had to collapse together to the floor. We didn’t worry about what we looked like, or how good our moves were, we just danced like no one was watching. I laughed and he giggled and for that second, all was right in the world. Everyone needs to do more dancing.
Things continue to be interesting in our current living situation. For those of you who don’t know, we (my husband, son and I) are staying with my husband’s aunt and uncle and my mother in law. The aunt and uncle stay upstairs and my MIL has the (finished) basement. Hopefully, this is a VERY temporary situation, but until we can save up enough money to put a deposit on a new place, this is where we are. Here are the things that I find weird or irritating, and please, I’m not judging, it’s just that I’m not used to having to live this teenager-ish lifestyle after having been on my own for over twelve years.
- The aunt has a weird thing about locking doors, as in she doesn’t trust anyone else to do it. That means if I go out I have to be home by like 9:00, because she will stay awake until everyone is in the house and accounted for and that makes me feel guilty so yes, at 33 years of age I have a 9:00 curfew.
- I offer to help, like cleaning up after dinner or helping unload groceries or do some laundry or SOMETHING, and am always refused. However, I know for a fact that my MIL thinks I am the most lazy person in the world. Hmmm…
- There is always someone WATCHING. The other night, in a fit of desperation, Adam and I escaped to the car to try and have a private conversation. The entire time we sat there, I could see the curtains twitching and the uncle’s hand on the drapes. Also, I know for a fact that the other night while we were having an argument, my MIL actually OPENED THE DOOR where we were to listen more closely.
- And that’s another thing; the lack of privacy is just unbelievable. I mean, I can’t even whisper without someone listening. Adam and I have taken to writing each other notes so as not to be overheard, and it’s not like we’re even talking about anything interesting, it’s the principle.
- Dinner is at 6 every night, and God help you if you are not present. Except for those times when it’s not 6, but no one will let you know and you will just sit and starve until the dinner that you are not allowed to help prepare is ready.
- Do not talk to the uncle while the T.V. is on. Just don’t. He will never answer you and you will be left with your sentence hanging in the air, looking stupid.
I feel that I have to preface all this by saying I am extremely grateful to have a place to stay while we are in this transition. I feel guilty when I complain but like I said, it is really hard to live with someone else, and I’m living with three other someone else’s. And this is what’s going on in my life so I need to write about it.
Sometimes I just want to drive, crank the music up & go off into the sunset, find a hotel somewhere and spread out on the bed, sleep for 12 hours, watch sappy movies.
Today I got 6 inches cut off my hair and now I can’t stop swinging my head around. I felt guilty about spending money on myself, and then went ahead and got my brows waxed too. The lady that did it smelled like cotton candy, and we talked about our sons.
Got a couple Christmas presents for the boy; it’s never enough. Is saving for a place or believing in Santa more important? He needs to have a little magic in his life, he’s had to grow up too fast.
They play Lego’s together on the floor; he is so patient and explains every part. He is so precise, even with these blocks for him. It hurts like hell when a Lego catches you barefoot. The boy watches his dad, admiration. He is his whole world.