Today I’m blogging at Four Strong Women about the trials and tribulations regarding waxing…
I’m also at Three Wicked Writers Plus Two sharing an emotional moment between myself and my seven-year-old daughter.
Have a great day!
When Callista Hill settles in tiny Morgan’s Creek, she vows to make a better life for herself. She never figured lust and screaming-hot orgasms were part of the equation. One look at the local bar owner and she’s flooded with the need to have him in her bed. He burns her to ash with every erotic touch, bringing her sex-starved body achingly to life.
The instant dark, moody Mac Moreno claps eyes on Callie, he knows he wants her. Her lush curves turn him inside out and have his libido racing from zero to sixty in three seconds flat. Burning up the sheets with this sassy, sweet lady brings him back to life. But when her stalking ex hunts her down, will Callie run?
Not if Mac can help it.
By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
I’m constantly amazed by the beauty inside my best friend, Nat. She is one of life’s angels. She has endured a lot in her nineteen years, and if anything can go wrong it goes wrong for her. Yet she ploughs on with a happy face and sees things through to the end. She’s determined to succeed in her profession to give her son the best life she can, and although inside she’s sometimes anxious and scared of what’s ahead, no one would ever know. She comes across as super-confident, happy, and that nothing can get her down. She’s a lot like her mother. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. We both have immense empathy for those less fortunate than ourselves. We both worry about things going on in the world. I use my life to touch people with my words. Nat uses her life to touch people with her presence and knowledge. She’s training to become a social worker—one who will do everything she can to make life better for others. She has worked with young children and the elderly, giving her time and patience, her caring and just her beautiful self. I love her.
She visits me every week, and every week I tell her my woes, and every week she fixes them. If she can’t fix them she talks to me until I find a way to fix them myself. This week she fixed me, took a little weight off my shoulders, and today an envelope arrived in the post from something she had done that took the weight completely away.
What did I do to deserve such a terrific person in my life? One who stands by me whatever the weather, metaphorically holding the umbrella if it’s raining or giving the sun cream if it’s hot. Providing the glue to mesh my frazzled nerves back together or healing the blisters I’ve acquired from walking hard and long.
I wish her a life of beautiful sunsets, where every moment is as pretty and calm as the setting of that sun, where nothing hurts and nothing is too difficult, where she can live a life free of angst and full of happiness.
I thank my lucky stars every day for my best friend, Nat.
People ask, when my kids turned eighteen, whether it made me feel old. My eldest daughter is 19, my eldest son turned 18 today. I also have 3 other younger children and a grandson. The answer is no. I’m only 37, so have no reason to feel old. My kids keep me young anyway, but isn’t it weird how we still feel the same whatever age we are? Okay, we gain more maturity, but we still get scared, find stupid things funny, and worry about things. Maybe not to the same degree, because with age comes wisdom and the knowledge that things really aren’t as bad as we thought they were years ago, but all the same, we have identical emotions.
Today I have memories of my son’s birth, obviously, and the way he was born breech—but foot first not bottom—and how it got dangerous at one point for both me and him. Luckily, after the epidural and being told I’d have to have a caesarean, my son decided to make a rapid entry on his own. They had to cut me to get him out (TMI?), but hey, I escaped the op. When they took him away and placed him on a breathing monitor, though, it scared me shitless. No one told me what was going on, and after a bit of a frightening labour, I thought the worst was about to happen. It didn’t. He breathed fine by himself, had a dislocated hip for his trouble, I got myself a nice set of stitches, and all was well.
My memories move on to him as a child—a naughty little bugger who tested my patience to the maximum. Looking back, the things he did were funny, but at the time they weren’t. Not when his big sister and younger brother needed my attention too.
The most vivid memories I have of Sonny is whenever I bought a new box of washing powder, he thought it was great fun to pour it on the kitchen floor and make ‘mountains’. Or when he sprayed a whole can of air freshener outside and came back in to say, “Mummy, go out in the garden. It smells lovely out there.”
I even hid the air freshener and washing powder on top of the kitchen cupboards, but he was the kind of child who thought nothing of climbing up on the side and getting those things down. You might ask what I was doing at the time that allowed him to do this. He was quick—too quick—and by the time I’d got in there the damage was done. He’d wait until I was occupied with his brother or sister and disappear. The indication he was up to no good was his silence.
Ah, like I said, funny to look back on now, but back then I couldn’t imagine that child reaching 18. And now here he is, a man.