PJ said he would rule at Women's wakeboarding.

Want to be a winner
Want to be the man
Want to drive yourself insane
Join up with the band
Want to fall in love
Want to make your mark
Want to get out in the storm
want to break a thousand hearts

It's the house of loud around here today, with old music vying with new for space in our ears, thumping in my chest, tapping in my fingers as I roll the big skull ring over and over around the first knuckle, fourth finger of my right hand.

It's not a bad day. I still have a mild leftover headache from the paint fumes/silicone caulking/lack of sleep/straight rum (oh, hush) but otherwise things have been better. This morning I did some outside chores and the children rode their bicycles up and down the sidewalk eighty-five times, then we went in to cool off for lunch and sacked out afterwards in front of the television with ice cream, watched a little of the X games and talked about which sports we would master when we grew up.

I think I would do anything save for skateboarding. My first trip, down a steep paved hill littered with gravel, on Lochlan's skateboard, no less, ended badly when I was twelve and I flew off it and landed on my face. Lost most of my front teeth and a whole lot of skin from my limbs and got to start Junior High School as the human road rash.

He is still laughing.

I am still glaring at him.

We don't tend to let things go. But better a skateboard accident then the three (almost four) marriages, three babies and the heaven in a drive-in movie theatre back field between us, he always says.

He thinks this house is his. Stole my newspaper twice this week, even after I pointed out I need it for the dog, so he goes in the right place instead of wherever he wants. Drank the last of the coffee I was saving for the four o'clock Narcoleptic Princess Experience, and erased the list of new albums by date from the white board in the kitchen that I was using as my guide so I would be able to make the weekly pilgrimage to HMV where they take my credit card and return it to me with scorch marks and I get new music to dive into like a fresh backyard pool, ice cold, coming up with wet curls, burning eyes and chlorine in my nostrils, bikini straps cutting against the slight sunburn of the previous day.

The X games got pretty old after about an hour, though. One spectacular moto x crash, and far too many qualifying drills to make an afternoon of it, and instead I'm trading messages with Ben and listening to Spy Adventures from upstairs somewhere when they take place right over my head here on the window seat in the kitchen and the dog is lying on the hardwood planks like he's just finished his own X games and really it feels like a Friday but it's not, not quite yet. I'm trying to do nothing for once and it feels rather weird.

I could clean the bathroom. I could finish raking along the side of the house where all the leaves tend to pile up and I could practice my spelling, since there are at least three words in existence that I use almost daily that I can't spell at all but I'm not sharing them right now, because I don't feel like looking them up and they never come up in spellcheck. I could file my ragged nails and paint them black to match Ben's. I could start dinner so that it's extra-awesome instead of just good, an effort I fight for mightily.

Or I could close my eyes for a bit, and imagine my arms going up around the back of Ben's neck, getting a coffee-and-cigarettes kiss which would be totally gross from anyone else and totally perfect from him. I could sleep for just very few minutes and then be awake enough to enjoy a movie or another evening spent out on the patio with boys and guitars and sleepy children, or I could just not move or do anything at all. And just wait for a moment. One perfect moment with quiet, with sunshine, with a light cool breeze and a little peace inside my head. A slow down and take it easy, Bridget moment that I never actually take, I'm stockpiling them in hopes that I can cash them all in at the same time, click my heels together and be transported to that resort in Tortola where they have a hammock and a view of nothing but ocean.

I'll lie in that hammock and spend my minutes with abandon, and I won't have to wash a dish, scrub up a puppy accident or break up a fight for an entire day. I won't get hungry or sunburned, and I really, really won't give a shit that I can't spell vaccume.

So there.

Terrible Eights.

There must be something in the water. Every time I turn around Henry is screaming about some perceived atrocity and Ruth, true to form, is cold and usually ignores him, rolls her eyes or uses stealth and devium to exact revenge by pinching or namecalling when no one is looking.

Sure he has crappy impulse control.

Yes, children fight.

It's the first time in his entire life I've been tempted to say "Wait until your father hears about this."

Only that would be pointless. He wouldn't know what to do either.

It's nothing serious, just the growing up, lack of sleep, boring week so far type of outbursts that make me want to squeeze my fingers into the palms of my hands until I see blood and I have to grit my teeth not to yell back at him, which is easy, really.

I remember the unfairness of being eight.

All I can do it try to help him keep it as painless as possible.

On an up note, things won't be so DULL around here anymore. Ben's office is finished! Which means furniture moving and picture hanging and probably couch shopping but that isn't important. what's important is that I did it. By myself. Every single square inch of perfect, painted surface is my handiwork and it's a labor of love for my guy who has been so sweet to me even when I'm a whirling shrew.

Especially when I'm a whirling shrew.

Must draw that, it sounds intriguing.

Now I need to go lie down. Paint fume headache with a side of narcolepsy. Such a prize.

Like a princess to a flame.

Fail to mention your intentions, fail to mention why.
The actions of your life contradict your words.
The path in which you walk, a line of no remorse.
Washing conscience from the skin, claiming innocence.
Ignore the signs.

Painting clothes are old army pants and a t-shirt that is too pink and too tight to wear outside the house. Ponytail. No jewelry. And I never bother to take a shower on days I plan to be a mess.

The good news? Ben's office is just about ready. Meaning the ceiling is beautifully finished and the walls have two coats of the most awesomemest shade of melted milk chocolate ever on them and there are no spots left to touch up. Tomorrow morning I will paint the trim and then when that's dry I'll clean the floor and put up new curtains so by supper time tomorrow night it will be ready.

And the paint for the other rooms that need to be painted is going to sit for a few days, because I don't want to see it. I'm tired. We did the fence two weeks ago, that was three straight days of labour, then last weekend was kitchen stuff and really in and around all of that I am still cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, breaking up fights, organizing our lives and generally winding up with maybe thirty minutes a day to myself.

So yes, as a matter of face, I am averaging a whole half-page a day of The Time Traveler's Wife and getting no writing done at all.

But on the upside, the house looks fantastic. I want it in market condition so that if we decide to sell abruptly we can (and enjoy it besides). If this coming winter matches the summer, so far with it's fifteen degrees below average temperatures, we'll be gone before we can realize we're cold.

I have a headache. A mile wide, from a combination of sleeping on Ben's feather pillows and from not sleeping at all. From being pre-menstrual. From stress thinking about life and from an inbox and an outbox I can't make a dent in.

From wishing the summer had involved a cabin on the beach and a threadbare quilt for the sand and little else. Candles, potato salad and some really good hair conditioner, perhaps. That's enough 'else' when on vacation. Time to read my book and enjoy the little bit of life that is mine. Ours. Yours.

And I think PJ is drugging my food but really that's a whole lot of speculation and no fact to go on whatsoever, I've just noticed the past two weeks that my brain isn't working at ALL, but it is probably the cold nights and absent rest and just about whatever else I can pin it on.

Even though when I've suspected similar situations I've been right, every time. Keep her calm and she won't miss Ben so much all the time, right?

In other news, because I don't know if I told you, did you know I ordered the parts to fix my phone? $50 all told, which is cheaper than paying $600 for a replacement phone when I'm exactly twelve months from a sanctioned upgrade. Ben is going to fix it when the parts come and he's been sending me links to some crazy protective cases.

Sigh.

I need to go, I want to have a hot shower and rest for a few minutes before I begin dinner preparations. And I'm noticing the wick is low on one end here, and if you want to burn a candle at both ends, it's always good to have extra on hand, right?

Eggshell finish.

I'm so warm and calm inside
I no longer have to hide
Lets talk about someone else
Steaming soup against her mouth
Nothing really bothers her
She just wants to love herself

Here today, gone tomorrow. It's unintentional immersion into my worst fears, for I only can reach my arms around him and he's gone again, the living spectre in this ghost story, the one you think you see in the shadowy darkness up ahead, but then when you return to the safety of the bright lights, you dismiss your sighting as a trick of the mind.

I'm getting better at the goodbyes now, able to save the great hitching sobs and endless tears for after he's gone, instead of during or worse, before the goodbyes. He holds me so tight, it's as if he could just absorb me into him and I could ride along for the duration and never be away from him.

He went on a spree of domestic bliss before he left, putting in the new range hood, mowing the lawns, giving the puppy a thorough bath and spending individual time with each child. He played his guitar for me and held me safely while I slept, going out of his way to make the days count for as much as they can while we continue to navigate life after death, hand in hand.

It still sucks that Ben is always leaving, though.

Now I must go, I'm making a surprise for him, I'm painting the den so he'll have his very own man-cave here at home that he can disappear into that isn't the basement music room with the work connotations. An oasis in plaster and paint and wood. It's okay though, he knows I'm doing it, he just doesn't know the color I've picked out or the actual decorating plans. It will be a nice surprise overall and it will be finished by the next time he comes home.

I hope. I'm not all that psyched to paint a whole room by myself but it's one of those things I think I should be proficient at doing. Along with other life skills like changing a flat tire and pole dancing.

Er..

Snort.

Wish me luck. I've got my drop sheets and I'm going in!

(If you don't see me by lunchtime, could you send a search party? Okay, thanks. Bye.)

That's it, I'm kissing all of your foreheads from here on out.

This time I won't go softly
(I never wanted to be)
Refuse to simply fade away
(I never wanted to be)
Still holding on 'cause this is
Far from over
I won't say goodnight
My heart's grown colder
Waiting for the sun to rise again
Crawling closer
So save your kiss goodbye
It's far from over

Last evening Andrew took us to the movies (I dozed off, no idea), then out to a new to us diner in a nearby borough and then we played pinball for a couple of hours before the kids finally wore out and I got them into baths and then to bed quite easily.

We popped Sunshine into the DVD player and measured out some positively lethal South American spirits and that was it for Bridget. Movies are my celluloid narcolepsy these days and it makes me mad because I love to escape into a movie, just not quite so thoroughly. I drifted off just as Cillian Murphy was staring into the sun.

I woke up in Ben's arms.

He came home sometime during the night and like a giant, clumsy ninja, managed to bypass all the alarms and Andrew in the spare room and the new restless and light-sleeping puppy at the foot of our bed and he sacked right out, falling asleep with his arms around me and his boots and jacket still on. Backpack on the floor. Airplane fuel fumes drifting lightly through the room.

I turned over into his face and kissed him on the forehead and his eyes opened instantly. Okay, so he didn't fall asleep. He asked if I was going to continue to mentally hand myself to the devil every time we have an argument. I nodded and he said to stop it. Then he said he was sorry but the whole not trusting him with really important facts out of misguided kindness or even fear was ridiculous at this point in time and it has to stop. Then he said So there and kissed my forehead.

We both smiled, not taking it for granted that we are together, in the same room again. A gift.

Then I sat up really quickly and surprised him and he sat up and we bumped a head on an elbow and both cringed and then laughed and he asked what happened. I pointed out I just realized he was home. Here. With us.

Where else would I go, little bee?

Anywhere. You could go anywhere.

My heart is here. My kids, my wife.

(I choked up right there and nodded, unable to say anything.)

I'm still mad at you.

You didn't have to come back.

And let the devil have you? I don't think so. Preacher raised us up right.

Oh he did, did he?

He tried, Bridge. And maybe he wasn't as misguided as you think.

Can we not do this right now?

Fine. We'll fit it in later on, after I ravage you in the shower.

Oh, see, now you're on to something.

Not yet, I'm not. Give me a few minutes and I most definitely will be, though.

But we were forced to take a raincheck on the ravaging, thanks to light-sleeping puppy that needed to be walked and children that wanted banana bread for breakfast (warmed, butternauts on the side, though in Henry's case they are butter aliens that resemble lumps of, well, butter) and juice and the phone started ringing and Ben made some comment about it being grand central as usual and then when he smiled I saw that he loves every second of this.

Every second. Even the bitter parts. Which balance out the sweet and make this domestic bliss almost palatable, an acquired taste that he's learning to crave almost as much as I crave the calm now. The peaceful no-drama, everyone lives their lives and makes a better effort to simply get along and we might have half a shot here at normal.

That blissful mediocrity we crave and then can't stand when we have it.

Yeah, I know. But Ben is home and this is good. Off to pick strawberries now. That always separates the real rock stars from the intended-awkward tattooed dads. Or so he tells me.

Diners are people too.

Bridget, what in the hell are you doing?

Giving the internet something to chew on, since they won't leave Ben alone.

He's got a thick skin about it, why don't you?

I'm not the star, Andrew. I don't have to read the crappy things people say about me. I can turn off my comments and delete my mail, I'm a nobody, after all.

That isn't true. You're our girl.

So then let me take some of the flack for him.

That isn't how it works.

I wish it worked like that.

So will you take down all the stuff about the commune? Your mother's going to be horrified.

No, in fact, I think it's time for another detailed lap dance post and I can finish myself off.

So the internet is your imaginary adversary now?

Sometimes.

Destroy all monsters?

If I could.

Do you know why we're here?

Lap dances?

I wish. That would be nice but your husband would crush me. We're here because we want to destroy the monsters for you.

What if you guys are my monsters?

That's what we're all afraid of, princess.

Maybe you just need thicker skins, then.

Oh, I see what you did there.

I'm good, aren't I?

The very best.

Further distractions will keep you off his trail, or About my house.

(I've thrown you so many bones this week you can practically re-enact Jason and the Argonauts, complete with your very own skeleton army.)

We call it a collective if we call it anything at all. The reluctant Utopia.

You call it a commune.

I hear that often. Daily even.

This house is large and rambling and built on a square. The hallways are large hexagons with all doors opening into the center. There are rooms within rooms and secret doors and windows and a dumbwaiter and a rooftop turret that I demolished with my bare hands and a weathervane. Copper filials outside and miles of wooden trim inside. Wooden floors. Big black grates on the walls for heat. Leaded glass windows in just about every room. It's like a church inside. A comfortable one where the light shoots right through the center and fills the house with joy because it needs to be filled with something and so we chose something good.

I don't care what you think, personally. It was meant to be.

Originally it was a good deal. A huge rambling Victorian house, laden with gingerbread and windows and bedrooms, tucked out of the way and somehow passed over by most, probably because it has one bathroom, and few people will consider a house without at least two. This actually has two, because the water closet at the top of the stairs has it's own door and window, and then you can exit stage right and enter into the huge bathroom proper with the big black cast iron and enamel bathtub, still with room for a large sink and as much other furniture as you would like inside, before continuing out through into the upstairs sunroom surrounded by windows on three sides. It leads to the west wing. This is not a small house.

No one else gave it a chance, and so it became mine, for around a third of what it should have been sold for. Not only was it a good deal, but it would serve as a base or a home away from home for the myriad of beloved friends we keep. Artists and musicians and actors and preachers and uniforms and family too.

And it did, in the beginning.

And then it evolved.

It runs pragmatically. There is a gentle hierarchy, only because there has to be. The children come first, followed by me, followed by the more vulnerable of the boys at any given time. Usually Ben because he struggles with everything so. He fights his recovery, he fights his work, he fights his emotions and so they coddle him. Then seniority plays a large role after that, leaving Lochlan pretty much in charge of most big decisions, but only if they don't involve me so much. PJ looks after my head and has much input from August and then Sam and then Joel if need be.

I cook and clean and do laundry, mending and I care for the children before all the rest. I listen. I keep the music playing and I serve as muse. I wash a heck of a lot of dishes. I borrow very large flannel shirts when I catch a chill and I will ask you for a hug before you can put your stuff down when you first walk through the door, if you've even left at all. The boys are responsible for male influence for the kids, co-parenting, if you will, lifting heavy things, all repair and carpentry, making Big Decisions, protection and affection. They are to create and to rest when they're here.

We buy groceries as a group, spend and save money as a group, and I keep their hearts intact. They keep my head screwed on straight and mostly keep us busy living life so that I don't fall behind and begin to miss. They have a water-tight schedule so that we are rarely, if ever, alone and the driveway is always full, to the point where I will come home and have to park on the street. It's fine though, someone will go out and move my car later. Someone will fix it later too, if need be.

People come and visit and never leave. Friends of the boys. Some keep their own space. Lochlan bought a house a stone's throw away. PJ lives a bit over but never goes home. John lives at the end of this street. Schuyler and Dan have their flat. Caleb has a loft downtown. Dalton, well, we all know of his beautiful apartment. August lives in his office, I believe (it's a joke but not really). Sam has the parsonage that Jacob sold out from under the church, who had to buy it back later and Christian doesn't live here at all anymore but he visits as much as he can. Technically the only people who live in this house are Bridget, Ben, Ruth and Henry but really we all know better.

This is home. To everyone. Ground zero. Space One. The House. Wide open with twelve keys flung to the ether and caught by those I trust, so good luck getting in.

But the house is not the important part.

The people are.

You may have a bias towards the way we do things here but what works for us may not work for you and vice versa. Traditional roles shared in a nontraditional setting are ultimately both romantic and horribly disdainful to the majority. Curiosity is usually the first reaction, followed by enthusiasm and then caution. Imaginations run wild. Old hypocrisies surface and are swiftly quelled because you see, dammit, you see how proper and uptight I am and how I don't stand for infighting that isn't valid or decisions that aren't fair or appearances that deceive.

I do care when I hear that there are rumors bouncing around so there, once again from the whore's mouth, the explanation. The best part is that it just seemed to happen. There were no plans to do this. Not all of us are hippies. Not all of us are extroverts who thrive on constant contact. All of us are well aware of the stigma of an intentional family to the outside world. But since when have I cared what the outside world thought of it all anyway?

You thought I was kidding when I talked of my kingdom.

I was not.

Devotion on all fronts.

Caleb is Henry's father.

(Now, read carefully.)

As recently as a year ago, Caleb gave me a choice. Sleep with him, regularly, or he would tell. He wanted everyone to know. He needed to stake his claim in my life because they were forcing him out. He is just like his brother was. Depraved and unholy.

It mirrored a decade ago when I was forced to sleep with Caleb on a regular basis, only I minded that less than you might think. Cole had ideas, you see. Ideas and plans and needs that make average, normal people cringe and cry. Scream. If they were a movie you would have turned it off and poured scalding water into your ears to cleanse your brain. Only he went too far.

He always did.

We suspected Henry was not Cole's biological son and for the sakes of everyone involved and everyone we knew and for his own absolution we decided to keep it a secret. Forever. Cole didn't want his friends to know how truly awful he could be.

But he's dead now and this doesn't have to be a secret anymore. I just became so good at keeping it. I kept it from the boys, fearing their judgment, kept it from the children and from Cole's parents. Besides, it was a suspicion, not a fact, right? That blew up in my face the spring Cole died (the week before his death, if you can believe that), when we had testing done to see, once and for all because there was an outside chance that Henry belonged to Jacob, too.

Because while Cole was torturing himself by letting Caleb have me, I was torturing all of us by going to Jacob.

I already told you about all that.

Jacob wasn't Henry's father by almost a hundred percent. Caleb, however, was. Cole was crushed, Jacob too, and I have spent a long time trying to pretend that this is not the truth. That maybe it was a dream and I'm not the monster. It doesn't matter if I was forced and then coerced. I'm still the only one standing in the glare of these headlights with my shame for all to see, a deer caught running all over the woods when she should have kept to her own tiny, perfect glade.

Outwardly, I continued to keep the secret. From my boys, of all people. They all wondered, and they speculated and hit on the truth a long time ago, discussing it out of my range and choosing to wait me out, knowing I would tell them when I was ready. I ask for an inch and they give me a mile. And Ben knew because Caleb had once enlisted him in the Big Plan to take me away from Jake (which blew up in Caleb's face, now didn't it?). So the news I had been so scared to give turned out to be a wash, and Caleb loses all his power over me in one giant breath.

The only thing he wants is time. Wow. If I could control time I'd be the center of the universe, now wouldn't I? He wants to spend time with both children. He wants to be a part of things, with assurances that down the road I won't take the kids from him and he won't try to take them from me. Henry knows and Henry is okay with it. He says it makes him even more a part of his dad, right? I smiled through my tears and said yes, it does. He doesn't understand. This will take time.

In retrospect, I married the wrong brother and everyone knew it. Only you're never going to pick the smooth, calculating and ice-cold one if you have a choice. You'll pick the passionate one, the romantic. The painter with the guitar who lives by his wits and loves until the day he dies. I loved Cole. All he wanted was his perfect little family with the pretty blonde wife to tuck into his arms, a girl, a boy and a house within which to grow the love we made. Only his predilections prevented that and I covered that cost and have since ruined three (four? five? six? twenty?) people and then some just by being me.

I'll take the blame because there's no one else left to do it.

I never said I was perfect. I am so far from perfect. I just hope you get it now. That you'll lay off a little and understand why when Caleb goes away, he never truly goes away. This is why. I could be awful. I could take all of Ben's lawyer power and I could make Caleb go away but he is also the victim here. He got caught up in something sick and twisted and he's been hurt by it too. It's left him wanting to love me and kill me at the same time. It's left him with rage and bitterness and guilt and it's left him with an obsession of possessing the one thing I won't let him have. His brother's family.

I can't help that. I'm not in love with Caleb. It doesn't work that way. Someday he'll get it. In the meantime, I just have to be careful. But finally there's a whole line of people with flashlights, leading me through the woods, pointing the way back to the meadow, back to familiarity. Back to safety.

Back to where I belong. Right here. Waiting for Ben to finish his work and come home to me. Because at the end of the day the distracted but painfully focused artist who plays guitar and keeps the romance bottled up until just the right moment, the unbridled temper tamed with stoic helplessness and true love is the one I want and I'm not giving that up to go be Satan's bride.

Ever.

I believe in you,
I can show you that
I can see right through
All your empty lies.
I won't stay long,
In this world so wrong.

Say goodbye,
As we dance with the devil tonight.
Don't you dare look at him in the eye,
As we dance with the devil tonight

Taking a day to breathe. Lip gloss reapplied after lunch. Ratty jeans and a rattier hoodie jacket over a low-cut t-shirt. Hair in my signature twist with a clip and the tendrils just perfect. Hoops and tunnels, diamond pendant, watch and the big skull rings in place. Socks. Man, it's cold.

Music on eleven. Breaking Benjamin today, because I need a little sweet with my loud. Clean house, laundry up to date and for the first time in almost three weeks I can put weight on my broken toes, which I smashed beautifully again on Tuesday night and I think that put them back into place nicely because once the agony wore off they seemed a whole lot better.

Going to go have an hours' worth of tattoo work done and then come home and cook a big dinner. See ya later alligators.

Maybe tomorrow you'll find what you're waiting for.

I only spent $120 at FAO Schwarz.

We're home and the away-guests left this morning to return to their own routines. Writing will resume as of now. My saltwater princes rule my world.

Where to begin again?

Firstly, the kids and I are well. Happy. Safe. LOVED. Oh my God, I had no idea how loved. Ben is healthy, relieved and redeemed, back to work for a new week of magic in his favorite format, back to inspiration and creativity we can't explain. Everyone is so much better than I ever expected. We're going to resume life missing Ben, watching Lochlan try to fill in as Male Influence, convincing PJ's mom to let us have the puppy back because she fell in love with him in our absence and breathing fully, all the way to the bottom because the other shoe dropped and I can stop waiting now.

Hmmm, what else, because I'm just not ready to write it out just yet. The courage seeped away this morning as I stared down the mountain of dishes and laundry I left behind in my hurry to be the one to take the blame. I beat Caleb by hours.

Four airports in as many days. Trips to places I didn't expect to see for awhile. My cracked iPhone that I dropped face-down on a rocky path still trucking along, ringing constantly with messages from the boys, all of whom dropped their routines and came to be with us and stayed with us until I felt brave enough to peek out from behind the wall they formed.

For the record? I found redemption too. Once again not finding blame for keeping secrets I thought would spell the end of friends, lovers and dignity too. Once again finding surprise that deep-dark princess secrets were actually open secrets, long speculated upon and discussed to be the truth and they were planning to wait me out. I cracked right on schedule. I begged forgiveness and was shunned because apparently there is nothing to forgive and I need to stop taking on blame and wearing faults like chains around my neck.

So everything is okay, everyone is well. The children are happy and had a wonderful time with so many uncles and family doting on us. The butler doted on us. Batman doted on us. It was surreal, you see, only you can't see and I can't show you things that would help you understand.

Sometimes you just have to be there.

At least that's what Ben said.