Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker

So. How to say this delicately…

….I have a third, now. I’m going to have to start giving them nicknames or something, because “my fiancé” and “my boyfriend” just aren’t descriptive enough, anymore (and especially not when you could argue that I have 2 boyfriends).

I’m not actually going to call them the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker. I just thought that’d be cute for the title. I have decided to name them according to their attributes: okay, I’m keeping my fiancé, because that’s just the best description; he’s the one who keeps the home fires burning, the one who chips in with the bills, the one who assists me in my decision-making… he’s just generally the wind beneath my wings. Fiancé–until he becomes my husband–will always be appropriate for him.

The next one (chronologically, I mean–I am not in the habit of ordering my men into any other kind of ranking system) I’m going to call the Soldier. This is more of an in-joke (he’ll get it; it doesn’t take *too* much erudite knowledge to work it out, and if you know your Shakespeare, you’ll work it out, too) but it fits, in every way aside from his actual profession. Suffice it to say that he’s past the point in his life where he composes woeful ballads to his mistress’s eyebrows.

Finally, the new one–who I loosely contemplated just calling, “The Boy” and thought better of, since if everyone else gets a detailed description, why shouldn’t he?–I will be calling by the only suitable moniker available… the Jester. I will now attempt to describe (because this is the first entry about him, and he deserves a little time centre-stage) why that title fits him so well.

First of all, you may have gathered this already, but he’s quite young. Not creepily young, I haven’t pulled him in off the street on his way to school or anything, but he’s young enough that it gives me a frisson of… unease, periodically. I have chosen to make this slight hint of danger into a hint of spice instead, and am seasoning my meals accordingly. (That’s a sex joke! Enjoy.)

Secondly, and most unexpectedly, I find myself at my ease around him. I will do things in front of him that I would be nervous doing around anyone else… partly, I chalk this up to the fact that some of my siblings are much younger than I am, and so, I’m used to putting myself forward in front of that sort of audience; I’ve had years and years of letting go of my (enormous yet eggshell-brittle) ego, and saying, “Look, here, I’ll do it, you have a go as well, see, I’m not very good and *I’m* fine, you can give it a try!” because that is what the eldest child does. You make yourself go first, so the little ones don’t have to, and you let go of any notion of whether or not you’re good or bad or indifferent, and you just do the thing, because you’re being an example, and you want them to see that it’s okay to try, and fail, and try again–and in that way, in teaching your siblings how, you yourself get a chance to play (even when you’ve outgrown it, by rights).

I have also been a mother for nearly a decade, now. We don’t ever have to discuss THAT in detail during this entry, but the skills are much the same. In fact, my kids have made me *better* at, well, being an older sibling–just like being the eldest of 6 (the blood relatives, anyway) made me a better mother.

Moving back to the Jester. In classic jester style, he does put himself out there before I even get a chance to, but because of the age difference dynamic, I can join in (whereas I struggle, with people my own age). And even though this backfires (he’s younger, fitter, quicker, more agile, just plain prettier than I am) and I wind up looking less good by comparison with him, I don’t mind. I’m used to that–it’s the natural by-product of having 5 siblings, all younger than you, and all unfailingly superior in a variety of ways.

Final point (there are more reasons to call him a jester, but 3 is enough for now)–he makes me laugh. A lot. More or less constantly, in fact. In other words, he’s a… jester? Like every fool in every decent play, he’s funny because he’s clever, and he gets away with saying more than he should because you can’t deny the truth under the punchline. (He’s also shit-hot at general slapstick and clowning and pratfalls, with a wickedly expressive face, which helps–but it’s his quick wit that turns him into a jester, rather than a good-looking acrobat.) I don’t know how obvious it is, but I’m not the world’s most well-adjusted or upbeat person, and I *do* take it upon myself to be the leader of our little group of friends, plus being the head of my own household, plus often being the person that people go to with their problems… and somehow, I seem to wind up calling the shots, even when it’s not obviously my job to do so. There’s a running joke (running for over 5 years now–and is it even a joke?) that I’m the Queen of my own little kingdom (I know, it should be queendom, but gender norms are not welcome in MY kingdom). Whatever I call this, make no mistake, I am running this show, and *that* makes me the Queen.

And I don’t know about you–but I reckon the natural sidekick for the Queen, is her Jester.


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