WB MA-L,S: NSFW

This post is rated WB-MA L, S, N. (okay, not really N. Neither of us really want that.) It is intended for mature (well, let's be honest. I mean old. I don't give a shit if you're mature or not.) old audiences only.

Let's talk about post-baby sex.

It's.. well.... different.

First of all, there is timing. Tonight David waits until Robbie is JUST waking up from a nap. (Yes, he did FINALLY sleep. At 5am.) When I said that I hoped Robbie would stay quiet, David's answer was "we can close the door."

I was aghast, "We're not going to leave him out here CRYING! SHEESH!"

"Oh." He seemed to ken from my disgust that he should be ashamed of himself, but wasn't QUITE sure why.

Men. I swear.

Not to be confused with timing, there is TIME. Robbie eats every 3 hours most of the time. So if he eats at 8, finishes around 8:30, has to be held upright for another 20 minutes, takes another 10 to settle down, then I pump for another 20, that leaves a grand total maximum of about an hour and a half to do anything- eat, sleep, clean up, shower.. or sex.

You see where I'm going with this. The days of leisurely foreplay are gone. There is no after-glow basking or showering together. No time for deep conversations speckled with low, intimate giggling. (Shut up! Yes it WAS like that before. A time or two.)

"You listen for the baby. I'm going to go rinse off." Romantic. I know.

And then.... There is my body. Now, I really don't have any crazy negative self image like 99% of the rest of American women do. I used to. I spent years hating myself, convinced that no one would ever love me because who would even want to look at me? But somewhere along the line I just outgrew it. Maybe it's because I married a chubby chaser. I don't know.

I don't think I'm any prize, believe me. I know I'm fat. And not traditionally pretty by any means. If I could snap my fingers and be thinner, have a smaller nose and thicker lips, I would. But I don't hate myself because those things aren't true. I don't hide under too-big clothes (well, I do now because I've lost 60 pounds since Robbie was born, but that's because I'm too cheap and too busy to buy new ones) or hide in the dark.

As a matter of fact, I'm actually topless most of the time at home. Between trying to nurse and pumping, it's just easier to take my shirt off. So I spend a good half my day at least half naked. The other day I found myself cooking myself some breakfast naked and remembered the sage advice "never fry bacon naked." Fortunately I was having eggs and oatmeal. Low splatter risk.

But yet, I definitely DO feel differently about my body. And it feels differently, too.

Now, my hoo-ha experienced no real trauma. My bikini line (or in my case- my granny panty line) did, but it's not generally too important in the bedroom. But my hoo-ha, well, it feels different. There. I said it. It feels different. It's tender. I don't know why. But it is.

And then there are my boobs. Well, I say "my" boobs, but really, that's the trouble. They're not mine anymore. They belong to Robbie. And Medela. Sure, they're fuller- LITERALLY. But they're the antithesis to sexy to me.

They swell and get sore. While they don't really leak, if squeezed, I can shoot a stream several feet in front of me. They're closer to chinese take out boxes than sex objects at this point.

This is troublesome for a woman married to a boob man. He wants to touch them. And squeeze them! Whatever the antonym for aphrodisiac is would describe my feelings about them. Sexy time thoughts do NOT include "DON'T TOUCH THEM. OH GOD, NO! Shit, WHAT IF I SQUIRT HIM? Maybe if I just smash my body against him, he won't realize I'm trying to fight the urge to punch him. OH NO! IS THAT SWEAT OR MILK? Shit, are we done yet?"

Finally- and this is the funniest part- I'm scared to death (see there, that's a pre-eclampsia joke!) to get pregnant again. Yes, yes, I know- 2 1/2 years, 2 miscarriages, 6 IUIs, 4 1/2 million sperm, I SAID I KNOW.. But what if. I mean, the fertiles keep telling me "... then BOOM! She got pregnant right away!" Even my trusty OB gave me the speech. It could happen.

Our original plan was to just never go back on birth control. I mean, the chances of us conceiving on our own again were slim, and if we did, well, YAY FOR US.. But that was before that whole pesky threatened stroke-seizure-organ-failure-lost-baby thing.

Since then I don't know WHAT to do.

I'm not sure we'll ever want to try for another biological baby.

And there is the breast milk thing, so my options are limited anyway.

I'm not really keen on an IUD and my doctor didn't recommend it anyway because 1) my cervix never dilated and 2) my vertical C section scar can apparently get snagged on it. (Go ahead. Take a moment to cringe)

That leaves the mini-pill. I can't remember to pee some days, there's no way I'm going to be good enough to take it in a timely fashion.

So mostly we've been using the ever popular too-tired-to-even-think-about-trying-to-do-it method. But you know, it was his birthday.

Suddenly I've fallen backwards 10 years (okay, closer to 20. DON'T JUDGE.) and am thinking "Oh no.. don't let me get pregnant.. don't let me get pregnant.. don't let me get pregnant."

The chances of that happening are slim, yes. But so were the chances of us getting pregnant, staying pregnant, getting pre-e, getting pre-e as badly and as early as I did, and we won't even get into the rarities that Robbie's health (both good and bad) has brought into our lives.

And of course, all of this is what goes on in my mind when David gives me the old "Hey.. ya wanna?"

I'm sure his thought processes go something like "I'm hungry. How about a hot dog? A hot dog looks like a dick. Ooh.. my dick. I should see if Trish wants to..."

Now all of this isn't to say that sex isn't great. I mean, you know, parts of it still are. But it's definitely a whole new world in there.. err.. out there..err. in the bedroom, I meant.

It's complicated. I don't think I'm mature (or old) enough to figure it all out.

--Trish