Rated X Imagines

The Sexual Ultimatum

The Sexual Ultimatum

_______________________________________________________________________________

I need to do the laundry.

The partially insignificant thought roamed around my mind as I wiped down the sticky molasses that was spilled earlier this morning from the kitchen table. Nauseatingly sweet punches of the drippy sugar's scents swirled through my nose and churned the pits of my stomach.

Syrup has always been my nemesis; but, unfortunately, my kids love it. "Camille, honey, this is the third time in a row that you've spilled syrup on the table. You need to be careful." God, I even got syrup on my husband's button down work shirt.

Completely avoiding my disciplinary tone, Camille kept her attention on the nappy headed doll that resided in between her legs, brushing out the kinks of her hair with my detangling comb.

"Cammie."

Nothing.

"Camille, I know you hear me. Now you got one time to ignore me before I..."

"When is daddy coming home," she asked, gazing at me with her father's chocolate eyes. Every day I have to look at her and see some of the features from her father who has been away on a business trip for a little over three weeks.

Their father, and my husband - gone. For almost a whole month.

Sure we get to Facetime every other day, and he calls to say goodnight, but he's not here. The kids have been restlessly waiting for Daniel to come back, just becoming more irritable as the minutes and hours and days go by. And guess who gets the brunt of all their frustration.

Me.

An example would be this syrup situation right here. My five-year-old knows how to pour herself some syrup for her damn pancakes, yet ever since Daniel left she keeps missing the plate. That's not even the physical abuse. I've been bitten and kicked more times than I would ever put up with, kicked at least three times in the face when I've tried to calm down her rants, and flipped off. Can you imagine that? I got the middle finger from a little girl that hadn't even been out of my womb for more than sixty months, all because I wouldn't let her stay up to watch cartoons.

See now the way I was brought, my mother would have harshly grazed my backside with the leather belt until I cut out my bad habits, but with Camille I'm caught at a crossroads.

She's only lashing out because she misses her daddy, and I understand that. But best believe if those teeth come in contact with my skin one more time, I'm busting out Old Reliable,

After Camille comes my oldest, Isaiah. He's only seven but his punishments for me are far more severe and well thought out than his baby sister's.

My son is a talker. He'll talk about anything and everything under the moon and still have more by the next day. Our conversations ranged from any subject: what he did at school, what he and his friends did at recess, what he ate for lunch, what's happening in his favorite television show. Like a regular mother, I hung onto every word - coming in to tell my day right after he finished. That's how we worked.

However, once the second week rolled around and he realized that his Dad's promises about coming home soon weren't as true as he first believed he commenced Operation Silent Treatment. Which comprised of him not speaking to me, and only me.

Isaiah knew how to push the right buttons. Instead of coming to me, he explained his day to his day to Daniel on Facetime or to his little sister who was too engrossed in her toys to even bother with his stories.