I’ve been gone from my blog for 10 days, so although this post is all about the picture there are some words alongside.
I started writing in 2017, after my lovely husband sent me to Eroticon. I managed to sustain content for a little while until the first parenting crisis derailed me. My confidence knocked, I pulled myself together and started again in Spring 2018. I lasted until June and more parenting. I’m going to work hard to not be derailed this year, even if sometimes I need to step away to deal with life.
Mr Hunt and I have three children with a variety of additional needs. Parenting crises come with more regularity than the local bus service. We are called to be advocates for activities able people take as right, access to education, to social groups, to sport. For the right to have appropriate support that feels safely staffed in both the individuals we can afford to pay and the appropriate ratios. And then we do all the things normal parents do…
The stress of this on our relationship is immeasurable. We both work from home and yet to communicate we send each other emails. Meeting invitations direct from our calendars to find time when we can speak to each other face to face.
We fight hard to remember the promises we have made each other through the midst of everything. Spoken and unspoken. To love, honour, cherish and obey. In every context.
This week we went to court for the right for our eldest to have an appropriate education. I was away from my blog preparing answers to the 500 pages of evidence the local authority put in place to say why we couldn’t have the placement we wanted. Why he wasn’t that special. I couldn’t afford professional support so we had no new professional evidence of need or a paid solicitor to combat the one the local authority paid to oppose us.
We won. The LA conceeded on everything, which really goes to show we should never have had to fight for it in the first place. We go back to court next month to legally tie down everything agreed and to force health and social work to contribute to planned long term support.
There has been no exuberance. No celebration meal. The result of winning was complete and utter exhaustion.
But last night…
…it takes planning to have an night together. One child at Scout camp, one to a sleep over with another autism mummy, one to the grandparents.
Getting “in the mood” on queue is hard, but these opportunities so rare we can’t waste them either. And what would wasting it look like? Lying on the sofa watching a movie? Falling asleep at 8pm because we can? Failing yet again to give what we perceive we owe our partner?
We plan. It’s not that spontaneous is gone for good, but for now having a plan works best for both of us. So last night was “Staples” for Kink of the Week. Something we’d played with a little before, knew we enjoyed, but really has to be saved for a night like this.
Still, we were tense. Trying to clear the physical space for some play meant picking up a thousand pieces of lego. We snapped at each other trying to get organised. He couldn’t find the ribbon. I wanted to relax into it, but tried to fuss over the details like finding scissors, then gave up, then was cross when he’d forgotten them.
There was no meeting of minds. No way to access the dynamic we both wanted. But he can’t control me like that and I can’t control him.
I can only get to grips with myself and make the offer. Push things from my mind and let the openness to him become the central pillar of thought. Remember, cognitively, that I trust him.
Hope he is going through the same thought process.
Stretched out on the duvet I was closer, but not there. He went through the mechanics of getting ready, some of which I could feel but we didn’t communicate. I really didn’t want those staples. Instead of the beautiful quietness I get from a scene, my head was asking all sorts of logical questions about pain and damage.
This isn’t a matter of responsibility. I could have said nothing and gone with whatever happened. He could have read that I wasn’t feeling it. Perhaps he did. But he knows me. I ideally prefer to push through, rely on discipline. Because the underlying anchor in our lives is that I trust him in all things.
I am frustrated that tonight when I want to demonstrate that trust, I can’t. I have to remind myself it is not a failure to need to stop and talk more. I never feel he’s failed me when he the need is reversed.
His palm cracks down on my backside. Hard. Unexpected. Needed. Again and again. Loud and sharp like a bunch of balloons popping.
His jeans clad thigh pushed roughly between mine, his weight on me.
The harder it is, the more we need to communicate.
I run out of writing here… because the stuff in my head about what happened next can not be tied up in words.
Suffice it to say we found our flow. Our dynamic.
A little footnote here is when we were gathering supplies on Saturday evening, the failure to plan hit home. Although we’d known this was coming, neither of us had checked the width of ribbon we needed for the staples, and the only decent lengths we had to hand were left over from the making of our wedding invitations years ago. My dress and veil were stored in the same box…so getting them out for photos just seemed to be the thing to do! But having come to write this piece, it seems an important emphasis on how we focus on each other, how we picture our dynamic and how we operate day to day, whether parenting or playing.