Hold My Peen: An Ode to the BDE

Let’s be clear: I am a woman. I am a mother. I am "Ma," "Mommy," "Hey girl!" and "Excuse me, ma'am, I can't get past" more often than I’d like to admit. I’ve got the curves, sometimes a bonnet, and a purse full of old receipts, lip-glosses, earrings, role on parfum and peanut-free snacks to prove my femininity.

But lately? In this season of solo-parenting, corporate-climbing, and being the sole provider, protector, and plumber of this household?

I am feeling suspiciously masculine.

There is a certain type of "Big D*ck Energy" (BDE) that comes with being single. It’s the energy required to kill a spider with your bare shoe, negotiate a car repair without getting fleeced, and carry four bags of groceries while guiding a sleeping child in one trip because I’ll be damned if I make two trips. I’m out here fixing the Wi-Fi, dragging the trash cans to the curb in the rain, and making executive decisions like a Fortune 500 CEO. Changing litter pans, tracking a damn rat, and paying all the damn bills. I’m the "Man of the House" and the "Lady of the Manor" rolled into one exhausted package.

When I say, "Hold my peen," I’m not talking about anatomy. I’m talking about the phantom weight of the responsibility I’m carrying.

• Hold it when I have to tell this fool that he is being disrespectful.

• Hold it when I’m staring down a middle-school bully (or their mama) at the PTA meeting or on the sidelines of a soccer game.

• Hold it when I’m sitting on a date, listening to a man explain his 50/50 idea of financing to me, while I’m mentally calculating when interest on my 90-day same as cash purchase is going to hit and wondering if I left the slow cooker on.

• Hold it when I try to finesse some head out of my date with no strings attached, my dignity intact, and my panties balled up in my purse.

  
  

I am operating at a level of "strength" that feels heavy. It feels jagged. It feels like I’ve had to grow a metaphorical set of balls just to survive the Tuesday morning rush hour. Just get out of my damn

way!!

The problem is, when you’re always in "Fight Mode," you forget how to be soft. You’re so busy being the provider that you forget how to be the provided for. I’ve got so much "Protector Energy" that I’ve accidentally built a fortress around my own heart, and now I’m the only one with the keys—but I’m too tired to walk to the door AND you didn't call first.

But I’m "just a girl!"

I swear! I want to be dainty. I want to "oh my" at a heavy box. I want somebody to wipe the snow off my car. I want someone else to decide what’s for dinner for the next six to eight business years. But fuck it, cause somebody's got to do it.

So, here’s to us. The women who are doing it all. The mothers who are the real mamas and making shit shake because the fathers are too busy being bitches. We are soft skin and hard decisions. We are floral perfume and "don't test me" vibes. Stiletto nails and knock your block off hands. Lip gloss is popping but my mouth too slick. Lashes long and fluffy but I don't miss shit.

Until I can find a space where I can finally put this heavy-ass "masculinity" down and just... be... I’m going to keep walking tall. But for real? If somebody could just hold my dick for a weekend so I can go be a "damsel in distress" in the arms of a real man, hell or even at a spa... I would greatly appreciate it.