Reality Intrudes

Pinned to the bed, one hand in my hair, the hold so tight that it brought tears to my eyes. The other hand gripped my hips in a bruising crush of skin and muscle. The rhythmic pounding in and out of my body both comforted me and released unbearable tension.

It was one of the most satisfying fucks of my life and our relationship. It wasn’t the longest or the hardest. It wasn’t the most bruising. There hadn’t even been much foreplay. But it was the only way to celebrate the survival of the previous 24 hours with our humor intact.

24 hours earlier…

It was Christmas Eve. The boys wanted to stay up a little later and eat pizza. Daddy was going to a party planned by his stepchildren (from his prior marriage) and it was a chance to see his grandchildren. I wasn’t going for a variety of reasons – few of which made me happy – but it’s a situation that’s being handled in a delicate, slow manner.

A headache had bubbled out of nowhere during the evening. I always convince myself it’s lack of caffeine or lack of food. I never believe it’s a migraine until it becomes unbearable.

Pizza in the living room. Cookies for dessert. The last minute Santa preparations before the boys went to bed. “How many cookies do you want to leave out for Santa?” “Five!” “Um, I think Santa might be full from all the other cookies. How about two?” Waiting until I was sure no one would come downstairs for that last drink of water before stuffing the stockings.

The pain in my head was becoming unbearable. I was grumpy without Daddy. My skin began to tingle and my head buzzed from the pain. I was miserable.

Slumped in the couch, I barely acknowledged his return later in the evening. I hurt that bad.

Stories from the party. The rush to put out the presents from Santa (two bikes hidden in closets – never again!). Finally, time for bed.

I couldn’t stand on my own. I couldn’t open my eyes. Misery.

We were supposed to have a bit of kinky fuckery that night. We’d teased and tormented each other all day. Okay, maybe he teased and tormented me. Instead, he poured me into bed. I don’t remember much after that.

Christmas morning…

I woke up before everyone else (even the boys). The buzzy, tingly feeling was gone, but a residual headache was still in place. I stayed in bed, still and quiet, listening for the knock on the door that would tell me the boys were ready to have Christmas.

We made our way downstairs 20 minutes later. Gifts were opened in a blur. Everyone was happy (Daddy got me a Kindle Fire, y’all!).

Daddy went to make himself a cup of coffee, and I heard, “Oh hell no.”

The creamer came out clumpy. Brand new creamer. Still well within the expiration date.

Fuck.

Then I realized that in my preparations for our weeklong trip to see my family, I’d done too good a job of making sure nothing would be left in the refrigerator while we were gone. There was no milk. There was nothing to make a cup of coffee we were willing to drink. There was no way to feed breakfast to two picky little boys, and worse, I now had a grumpy, grousy Daddy with zero caffeine in his system.

Then, the worst thing ever happened. Ever.

I went to the bathroom. I went to the bathroom after a small child who uses 5 times the amount of toilet paper needed for any bathroom activity. I had to go, y’all.

I flushed.

The water started to rise. My eyes widened.

“John! John! OhmyGodohmyGod! Plunger! Plunger!”

Side note: we have a pretty clear delineation of tasks in our house. I cook and clean. He kills bugs, fixes broken stuff, and takes care of any plumbing related issues.

I stood outside the bathroom, horror on my face, whispering, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” over and over again while tears streamed down my face. I was mortified.

He was no nonsense. He was calm. He took care of it without a word.

I was red and sweaty. I was dying, y’all.

“I guess today was the day I was supposed to discover that you were a normal human being with normal body functions, huh?”

His sarcasm sort of snapped me out of it. But I couldn’t help recounting the horrors, all of them.

“First the migraine last night and we couldn’t…ya know (cue sideways glance and waggling eyebrows). Then you can’t have coffee. And I can’t make breakfast. And now thiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss!!!!” I dissolved into horrified, embarrassed tears again.

“Hush. Stop. Now.” He is never firm with me where the boys might hear. Maybe that’s what snapped me out of it – pure shock. “Let’s get dressed and go find breakfast and coffee.”

I sniffled, looking pitiful, and agreed.

Thirty minutes later, we were seated in an IHOP. It took 10 minutes to get a cup of coffee – a not so good cup of coffee, but at least there was cream and sugar.

We ate our overpriced breakfast and fought with little boys who claimed to be starving but refused to eat.

On our way home, we discovered our favorite diner had been open all the time. Le sigh. Of course.

Back home, and we spent time cleaning, organizing, and killing time until lunch at his sister’s house. That actually went well.

Christmas night…

Many hours later, on our way home, I declared I was hungry – but I was the only one. When we arrived home, I told all three boys I was willing to get everyone McDonald’s if they would just let me eat something. Requests for food made, and I was out the door.

Service was slow. And when I got home, the order was wrong. Damn it. But at least it was food.

The good behavior of little boys who really want Santa to visit vanished once the presents were in hand.

By the time Daddy and I went to bed that night, we were done, finished, kaput. I looked at him and kept asking, “What the fuck happened between last night and today???”

I figured we’d just collapse into exhaustion and attempt to forget the day.

He had other ideas. With a quick grab of my hips and a swipe of my pussy to test readiness (apparently, I was quite ready), he entered in one smooth move. There wasn’t much noise from either of us. Grunts and groans and a pounding fuck. It was exactly what we needed.

If there’s a moral to the story, it’s this: Never go to the bathroom directly after the 5 year old. Oh, and whatever fairy tale picture you have in your head of how a day or moment will go, reality will always intrude. The only thing to do is find something to laugh about. He’s still laughing about the bathroom incident. Le sigh.