Bus f

As we drive to soccer (literally, soccer, in the mini van) over the freshly paved street of Shelburbia Oliver chatters in the back, half to himself, half to me.

“Sometimes don’t you want to scream f-u-c-k?”

[Tweet theme=”basic-white”]Sometimes don’t you want to scream f-u-c-k via @annawritesstuff[/Tweet]

He is trying it out…spelling it show show he controls that powerful word, instead of it controlling him.

It’s possible that I gave him tacit permission about three minutes ago during our last ride from school.

After Leo’s rushed morning departure I was waiting to meet the 3:30 bus at 2:15, probably the last time all year that I would wish it to arrive earlier. I’m pacing in the mudroom, kicking shoes roughly into place, liking things on Facebook, flipping through bills with the new found tension of tight finances.

I hear the air, squeak brakes before I see it and I saunter outside, looking cool, but feeling like a junior high girl waiting to be asked to dance. Oliver’s head comes first. Then nothing.

The bus driver looks at me looking at him.

I hold up two fingers. He shakes his head no.

Sauntering over I rush the bus and walk the aisle, looking for his sleeping form, imagining he is just low down and hard to spot. But in fact he is not on the bus. It is an hour since school has let out.

A quick radio conversation confirms he is on bus A. Last years bus.

Oliver’s face crumples…he had gone the entire ride without noticing that Leo was missing.

So we jump in the van and start chasing bus a. Only to catch it at 4:15 when it returned to school. In a strange echo of his first ride in the front seat (right? Who puts a 4 year old in the front?) he emerges smiling, with a lollipop.

It’s the like the face page between short stories, some unplanned ride to an unplanned place, with me worrying and Leo bonding with his driver.

This time I had Oliver with me (I know I have digressed from the fucking part of the story) and he is wondering “how did this happen?” I don’t know. I had filled out the new address paperwork and even confirmed his new school bus route today over the phone with the guidance office. The fact that the boys were split and only Leo noticed is not that surprising. Oliver’s bubble of awareness is acute with a narrow diameter. Leo’s broad and diffuse.

We are all together now, driving home from school, where I could have just picked them up at 2:15 and missed this period of alternative waiting and rushing…but that wouldn’t have felt normal.

So I ask Leo what bus he rides tomorrow. Bus A he answers with an actual wink. I decide to give them a little gift. Not bus a, bus f. F as in fun, fantastic, fabulous, fuck.

What? Two little voices squeal? This is just for right now, this ride in the van…we will never speak of this again.

Bus F. Never to be forgotten again.

So a quick turn around for cleats and shin guards and water bottles and we are headed back to school. Oliver tests it out.

Do you mama, do you ever just want to yell f-u-c-k?

Uh, yeah?

I do, he tells me, when I am really really frustrated and things aren’t going my way then I sometimes just want to yell out a bad word…like darn, or crud, or f-u-c-k.

I’m imaging the emotional confidence that is coming next, the story of bullying,,or the emergent realization that he is uncoordinated enough not even to be able to do jumping jacks. A fact that is about to be confirmed for me in 10 minutes.

Yeah, right now I want to yell f-u-c-k. I just can’t keep my cleat tied.

Although I’m not sure that is fuckworthy I remember it later as the fucking fitted sheet somehow becomes a square too short for Leo’s bed.

For now both boys are accounted for, and the monotony of driving back and forth feels like a pleasant lull, and the question of a Syrian invasion seems way far away from Shelburbia.

What bus do you take home Leo?

Bus A. He says with a twinkle.

Don’t worry mama, I can never forget bus F.


For the best book I have every read about communicating with your kids click here. (Affiliate link) Spoiler…it does NOT recommend swearing.

Fuck your husband- How to Revitalize your sex life

Wedding cake figuresSome things should not be a secret. A great marriage deserves a great sex life. For that you need to fuck your husband. Remember when people didn’t talk about mental illness, and miscarriages? Wait…they still don’t. Well I do.

Remember when people didn’t talk about cancer? It was whispered, like the mere mention of the name could infect someone at the dinner table. Now the talking has led to action, and if not results at least support.

Thats how I feel about married people and sex.

What Friends Say

I mean, Redbook talks about it. Mega media talks about it. But friends…they don’t talk about it. Everyone is afraid they won’t measure up.

Talking with a friend about being an only child she got particularly interested. How was that? She asked. She might be the mom of an only child. She couldn’t imagine having another baby. She called herself one and done. Then, almost as an aside, “besides, that would mean I would have to have sex with my husband.” It was a throw away line. I imagined it was hyperbole. But worried that it wasn’t.

Be a Lazy Lover

Listen up. I am lazy, I do very very little that I don’t want to do. But I have sex with my husband. And you know what? I don’t always want to. Sometimes I really want to and that is best for both of us. But when I would rather just watch TV, or pick my toenails (I mean who can resist that sexiness) I have sex anyways. Lots of times it turns out really well. Much better than TV. Sometimes it is perfunctory. Sometimes it is really quite laughably bad. But it always makes us closer.

In my relationship I feel closer through talking, and Steve feels closer through physical contact. ┬áImagine if Steve just decided he didn’t want to talk. I mean, really for weeks on end, he wouldn’t talk. That would be unacceptable. But women feel they can go for weeks or months on end without being physical with their husbands. I know, it is your body, blah blah, but the “have and hold” part of the vows is probably getting directly at this point.

Fight (your) Nature

It is the selfish gene at work. As women leave childbearing age it is not in nature’s interest for us to have lots of sex. Men, that works well for the species. Go ahead, spread that seed, make more of me says the gene. By 40 many women are done perpetuating our species. Although I read a lot about women’s huge sex drive in their late thirties, that does not seem to be what my friends and I are experiencing.

This tacit mythology that women have had enough sex, and the birthday blow job plus the bi-monthly Saturday sex date will keep things running smoothly. I call bullshit.

Lose your Re-Virginity

I ask questions that most people don’t. There are lots of you that are virtually revirginized in your marriages. I know the reasons. I know how tired you are. I know how much work it can feel like. Here is a not secret secret. Things will be MUCH MUCH better in your marriage if you are having sex. And I don’t mean once a week. I mean 3 to 5 times a week. [Tweet theme=”basic-white”]If you are reading this and you don’t know exactly when you last had sex you need to fix that.[/Tweet]┬áIf you are reading this and you don’t know exactly when you last had sex you need to fix that.

Here are some tips to make it go better (feel free to unsubscribe)

Try This

  • He thinks you are beautiful, he loves your skin and wants to touch you everywhere. It doesn’t matter if you have gained weight, have stretch marks or varicose veins, he wants you and he wants all of you.
  • Get a vibrator. You should come too, and it is easier with some help.
  • Call it a quickie. If you label it that way the pressure is off to “perform” and that liberation often makes for a better time for both of you.
  • Just do it. Nike had it right.

Sorry mom. Sorry Steve. Hope this helps some of you get up to get down.

Here is an excellent book on the one hour orgasm. We all need to aim high.