In real coherent life, I fear my children walking in on me having an orgasm.
“Mommy, are you there?”
“I had a bad dream”
“Can I come sleep with you”
Enjoyment of sex just doesn’t work when my one good ear is listening for a four year old visitor to arrive at the foot of the bed. Having John just start the evening bedtime routine with making our couch in our room for the arrival of nighttime visitors, really puts a damper on the “when I get that feeling” type of mood. John can pretty much forget it. Clap his hands and turn me off.
One thing for me that is a complete “you’ve got to be kidding me” is the unusual treat when I am finally done with my daily activities and I am sprawled out on the sofa enjoying watching a show on television. The kids are finally quiet and assured to be in deep sleep. By 9:34 John is announcing that he’s WAY too tired to keep his eyes open, and just can’t hang on any longer so he’s going to go on up and go to bed, and can I let out the dog? So I lay there knowing what is to come, it ALWAYS does. Frustrated with the farce that is John’s exhaustion, I remain watching my program. On time, and really reliable, at my 10:00 bedtime, I let out Lille, go back inside to do one last straighten up a bit downstairs, and go back outside to call the damn dog that is now half-way up the street before heading to bed myself. I’m certain my neighbors use my calling as their own bedtime alarm, but I’m too embarrassed to care.
The lights are off upstairs and it’s completely dark in our bedroom, phew. I go into the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face and then blindly guide myself to my side of the bed, slip off my ballet slippers and tuck myself into the covers. BOOM…showtime. “What? Are you freaking kidding me?” Then my favorite line of all time, “it will help me sleep.” Hey, here’s one for you, John How about staying up an extra hour?
What happened to my sex kitten within? Since becoming a mother, I had stopped seeing myself as a sexual being. That’s probably because I typically had someone feeding off of me about 6 hours a day. Or, could it be that I see myself wiping ass and genitialia all day long, the last thing I want to see is my husband’s. Dr. Phil would say there was something deeper, but the truth is…I am lost.
Who was I? I remember how I was in my 20s. Since turning thirty and having three children, I can no longer keep track of how old I am. The only things that I had to let me know that several years have passed were the crows feet multiplying around my eyes and the triple set of stretch marks achieved with each child at key locations around my ass and mid-section. Gravity pulled the fat from my boobs to my stomach and regardless of the amount of starvation that I put my body through, skin and scar tissue had just taken up residence around my c-section scar and built a golf course community. Besides a tummy tuck and major skin grafting, there doesn’t appear to be much hope with ever getting it back to a Playboy potential.
Sex on, Lights off.