Mike and I officially started dating on my 18th birthday, we were still in college and still very much in lust. Our relationship grew fast and within months we were engaged. Not even a couple weeks after our engagement, Mike was finished his final year of college and off to work. On the other side of the country. But, we were dedicated to each other and we made it work. We made the best of late evening phone calls lasting well into the wee morning hours. We made the best of accepting that this was short term and trusting that, no matter the distance, we were faithful to each other.

One night, just shy of last call at the local bars, there was a knock at my front door. Home alone, on the phone with Mike, I made my way downstairs to find Andy; waiting patiently on my door step.

Andy. He was a gorgeous, down home, laid back beautiful East Coaster with a slight drawl. Muscles. Oh, the muscles. Tanned, taught and pretty much perfection. He and I had dated shortly and in spurts. Okay, so they were booty calls. But they were great booty calls. Prior to him even noticing me, I had spent many of my afternoons admiring him from afar in our campus pub. His bohemian style suited him to a tee; his wildly flowing shoulder length hair tucked beneath a ball cap, Birkenstock sandals and a patchwork Grateful Dead fleece jacket.

When we first met, I was smitten. Over the moon in lust. He was absolutely stunning, and better yet, wanted me as badly as I wanted him. Or so it seemed, because after a few nights I found out just how much he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend. Like so madly in love with her, his room was still plastered with pictures of them, portraits of her and a lifetime of memories. It was evident I was the rebound, and as much as it hurt, it took just as long to fall out of lust as it did to fall in.

Summer break came; I professed to anyone who would listen that I was over Andy. Out of sight out of mind is a magical, magical thing. Mike and I began dating and before long That Night arrived. That night, the first day he was back in town from his summer back down east, Andy showed up on my doorstep.

More shocked than anything, I quickly told Mike I had to go and that Andy was there. Probably a bad move on my part seeing as Mike knew our history and I just informed him that my ‘fling’ had shown up in the middle of the night while he was on the other side of the country.

We sat and talked for what seemed like hours. Sitting perpendicular to each other, he look my hand and guided me to his lap where I sat as he asked about my summer; we talked about his and then he slowly took my face in his hands and tried to kiss me. I willed myself to back away. I fought so hard to remain faithful to Mike and not let Andy get to me. God, I wanted to. I wanted to be with him again so badly, but his valiant effort would not sway me. Not this time. He took heed as I stood up and offered him a ride home.

As we pulled up to his house, he apologized for treating me the way he had before leaving to go back home. He said he felt horrible for leading me to believe that he was over his past relationship, but he was now and wanted another chance. I remember wondering if I could get away with being with him one last time. After all, I was engaged to Mike, making him likely, the last man I would be with. Surely he would understand that I needed that one last opportunity of freedom…..

I quickly said good night and reminded Andy that he had his chance – WE had our chance and it just didn’t work out.

After that night there were no more attempts. There was little effort to even make conversation, and eventually got to the point where we no longer spoke at all.

I still wonder sometimes what would have happened had I gave in. I doubt things would have ever gone past those remaining few months of college before we went our separate ways anyway. Everything I have now would probably have vanished into thin air had I let Andy kiss me. Sometimes? I get lost in the daydreams of what could have been, but, good day or not, I really can’t begin to fathom my life any other way.

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This post is part of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog Book Club. January’s second book was Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh. Igor, a married man and father of four, finds himself in a precarious situation as he takes up Coco’s offer of her summer house. His family, as well as Coco, live in this home for a few months and while his wife falls ill, Igor find himself tempted by Coco Chanel.

It’s not often that I cook. Everyone who knows me well knows my cooking typically consists of quick and easy items: macaroni and cheese (Velveeta, not that Kraft powder shit), spaghetti, sandwiches, zoodles, sometimes boxed preservative laden meats even.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

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This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.