A Personal Outlet
If you know me, you know I spend a lot of time researching the best parks, the most kid-friendly restaurants, the homeschool co-ops with the best field trips. But there's another side to my life that I don't talk about much in public spaces.
You know how I write about this site for the community, the parks, the events, the kid-friendly spots? Well, I also have this other side. I've been interested in writing for a while now, and I've found that exploring adult-oriented themes in writing gives me a creative outlet I didn't know I needed.
I've been reading erotic literature for nearly two decades. It's not something I advertise, and I certainly wouldn't bring it up in conversation with another mom at pickup unless she brought it up first. But it's real, it's meaningful to me, and it's part of who I am.
For years, I've been reading erotic fiction, not because I'm ashamed of it, but because I find it fascinating as both art and exploration of human intimacy. It's helped me understand desire, connection, and vulnerability in ways that felt honest and real.
Now I'm trying my hand at writing it myself. This is my outlet, my creative space, and if you're curious or interested, this is where you'll find it. This section of the site is for the other moms who aren't quite ready to let go of that side of themselves. If you're curious, feel free to peek around. If not, no judgment either way.
No pressure, no awkwardness, no forcing this on anyone who isn't interested. Just a safe space to explore something real that many of us keep quiet about.
Sometimes life gives you unexpected places to explore, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to be honest about who I am, mom, business owner, and yes, someone who enjoys writing things that might make some readers raise an eyebrow.
Honestly, I was going to publish this yesterday on April 1st, but then I realized everyone would assume it was an April Fools joke. And this really isn't meant to be one.
The Feelings I Don't Fully Understand
Here's the part I don't say out loud.
I am a married woman who loves her husband. I am a mother of three who would do anything for her kids. I run a community website that helps other families find playgrounds and summer camps. And sometimes, after everyone is asleep and the house is finally still, I sit with feelings that don't fit neatly into any of those roles.
Desire is confusing when you're a mom. Not because it goes away, but because nobody talks about where it goes. It doesn't disappear after the third kid or the eighth year of marriage. It just gets quieter. It moves underground. It hides behind the grocery lists and the bedtime routines and the sheer exhaustion of keeping small humans alive.
But it's still there. And sometimes it surfaces in ways I don't expect.
I'll be folding laundry and suddenly remember the way my husband looked at me that morning. Not a big moment, just a glance. But my body holds onto it for hours, like it's saving it for later. I'll be reading a novel, a regular novel, and a single paragraph about two people touching will hit me somewhere deep and quiet, and I'll have to set the book down for a minute.
I don't always know what to do with those feelings. They're not convenient. They don't arrive on schedule. They show up in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon when I'm supposed to be writing a blog post about splash pads.
And I love them. I love that my body still wants. I love that after all these years of early mornings and sleepless nights and stepping on LEGOs in the dark, there is still this part of me that aches for closeness. For skin. For the sound of his breathing when we're the only two people awake in the house.
But I also don't fully understand them. I don't understand why a certain look from him can undo me for an entire day. I don't understand why I crave his attention so deeply, why his approval settles something restless inside me. I don't understand why some nights I lie awake replaying a moment that lasted three seconds, turning it over and over like a stone in my hand, feeling its weight.
I think a lot of women feel this way and never say it. We're supposed to be the ones who have it together. The organized ones, the patient ones, the ones who remember the permission slips and pack the snacks and know everybody's shoe size. Desire feels like it belongs to a different version of us, a version we put away somewhere between the first baby and the third.
But I didn't put it away. I couldn't. And I'm done pretending I did.
Why I Write This
Writing is how I make sense of it.
When I sit down and try to put these feelings into words, something shifts. The confusion doesn't disappear, but it gets shape. It becomes a story I can look at from the outside, turn around, examine. The longing that felt overwhelming at 2 AM becomes a paragraph I can read back to myself in the morning, and suddenly it's not scary. It's just honest.
Erotic writing, for me, is not about shock value. It's not about pushing boundaries for the sake of it. It's about telling the truth about what it feels like to want someone. What it feels like to be wanted. What it feels like to carry a secret warmth through an ordinary day, hidden underneath the leggings and the messy bun and the third cup of coffee.
Every story I write here is a piece of something I've felt. Maybe not the exact moment, but the texture of it. The weight. The way desire can be tender and fierce at the same time. The way intimacy between two people who have built a life together is nothing like what it looks like in movies, and somehow so much better.
If you're reading this and something in you recognizes what I'm describing, this space is for you. If you're a mom who loves her life and also sometimes lies awake wanting something she can't quite name, you're not alone. You're not broken. You're just human.
That's all this is. A human being, writing honestly about what it feels like to be alive and married and full of want.
Welcome to my late night writings.