I live in a small town in Iowa. Truthfully, I love small town life. It’s pleasant and slow and laid back. It is a good place to raise kids or to retire.

But then we have to talk about the town I currently live in. To say I don’t like it is almost an understatement. If it weren’t for the fact that I hate to uproot the kids, I would have moved long ago. And I have told the youngest that when he graduates, I AM OUT OF HERE.

So what’s so bad about my town? Let’s start with the lawn police. At least that’s what I call them. Since I have lived here (10 years) I think I’ve had the police come 4 or 5 times to inform me that my grass was too long, and I needed to cut it. Yes, police have knocked on my door to discuss this with me. A few weeks ago, they even brought an official-looking piece of paper that my son had to sign. I was at my second job, so I didn’t have the pleasure of affixing my John Hancock to it. My friends can’t believe that they did that. I am considering having it laminated, least anyone doubt my word.

Why didn’t I mow the lawn? This latest time I was trying to get my lawnmower to work. I had been trying for a few days. Eventually, someone helped me out. He took 5 seconds, cleaned out the air filter, and it was good to go. Another time I was out of town and my 18 year old son was told to mow it while I was gone. He didn’t. Little things like that.

What else have the police visited me for? Well, when I was married to a man too lazy to do much of anything but eat, sleep, and drive around, they came to complain that the sidewalks were not shoveled well enough in the winter. This was our first winter together, and I made the mistake of thinking that he would actually go out and shovel snow. If he could get his car out of the drive, he was done shoveling.

I have known people to get notices to paint their garages, reshingle their roofs and fix their sidewalks. Apparently it does not occur to the powers that be that people don’t all have the money or the know how or the time to do those things.

In all fairness, there is a group that is trying to go out and help people. This group is not affiliated with the local government. It is more a reaction to it. And, of course, not everyone is into the Nazi style of clean up. What the Nazis don’t realize, however, is that in the towns that are nice and clean and beautiful, neighbors help one another. When my first husband left me with a young child and another on the way, people came out of the woodwork to help me make it. Unfortunately, I left that town and moved here.

So here I live, in The Heartless City

This time of year at school we start to see the pranks increase. Seniors are notorious for this. Last week I came to school to find feathers in the hallway. Apparently someone managed to set some pidgeons loose in the school. Rumor has it a BB gun was required to bring one down in the gym. The seniors got yelled at big time for that. My son thinks he knows who did it, but I didn’t pump him for information.

Earlier this spring we were treated to the locks on the doors being superglued shut. The perpatrators of that remain a mystery. The principal thinks he knows who did it, but has no proof.

I have heard the juniors discussing an interesting (if messy) idea. They want to set 3 pigs loose in the building with the numbers 1, 2 and 4 spray painted on. They want to see how long we look for the non-existent number 3. I doubt this one will come to pass, though. First of all, too many teachers have heard about the plan. Besides, pigs are kind of expensive. Who wants to donate 3 of them for a prank?

Today, though, a kid pulled a prank on the teachers. When I came in to the lounge this morning, I saw a sheet cake decorated for graduation. I thought perhaps someone had ordered too much and brought the extra in. Since I am involved with a constant battle of the bulge, I did not plan to partake.

It seems that no one did. The cake was brought in by the baker’s son, and it was just frosted styrophom. I told the boy that he was evil, but I actually thought it was kind of funny. After all, he had his fun, he got one over on us, and no one had to clean up anything thing. It was a great prank.

Raising children is an exercise in letting go. The whole idea is to raise them so they can face the world without you. Admittedly, this is a long, slow process, but that is the end goal. What does a mother do when that has been accomplished? How will I deal with the upcoming empty nest syndrome?

I do have a plan. I’ve always had a plan of sorts, but in the last few years, it has been taking shape. My plan has been to concentrate on ME. I had planned to move somewhere else, to an area where I wished to live, without concern for my children’s school or stability. I had planned to spend time on me for a while. In the last couple of years, that plan has become more defined. How exactly do I wish to spend my time? I wish to spend it serving my Master. It is my plan to move to his location. It is difficult to serve from so many miles away. I will be able to concentrate on becoming the slave that I long to me.

I look forward to that day.

No, I didn’t cry at my son’s graduation. I will admit to my eyes filling with tears, but they did not “escape”. I have been dealing with some interesting feelings as a result of his graduation.

I walked by his locker today. His locker. No, what used to be his locker. It is not his anymore. He is gone from the school. I was surprised at the feeling of loss. Why would I feel loss? What has been lost?

No longer will we be in the same school. Even if it were an option, I would not follow my son to college. It’s time for him to begin to make his way without me behind him, at least not so physically close. I went to his baseball game tonight. I have been feeling the loss of watching him play sports.

Beyond that, I am losing my little boy. The boy that I used to diaper, the boy who I taught to ride a bike, has graduated. And, as Master has said, he is his own man. He has his own thoughts and values, and he stands for them.

But for everything lost, something is gained. What am I gaining? I am losing my little boy, but he is replaced by a man, someone well on his way to being an equal. Hopefully, some day, he will call me friend.

Poor me. I had some over-ripe bananas, so I made some banana bread. Oh, does it smell good. Just one little piece?

No, I can’t Last night I baked cookies for graduation, and I ate one. Okay, I ate four. I just can’t indulge any more.

It’s all about choices, isn’t it? I choose cookies, I skip the banana bread. I eat both, I gain weight.

Life is a series of choices. We get up and choose what to wear, what to eat. We choose our friends, our car, our route to work. These choices have consequences. If you hang around with people that drink heavily, do drugs, and are often in trouble, chances are you will also find yourself pulled into trouble. This is foreseeable.

Many choices are simply individual preference. My choice to be involved in a bdsm relationship is my preference. For me it is appropriate. It is right. It is a fit.

It is my choice.