Let’s talk about sex. No, seriously, let’s. I may as well be talking about it, because I’m certainly not having much of it.
I should insert here (ha!) that if you’re at all uncomfortable with this level of openness, you should try another blog. I tend to let it all hang out here, for better or for worse.
If you’re a regular, you’ll know that we have chosen to co-sleep. We went the same route with my son, and it was fine. No, he wasn’t in our bed “forever,” something that the anti-co-sleep contingent feels compelled to warn all new parents about. When he finally left our bed, he was ready and so were we. There were no struggles. He didn’t sneak back into our bed in the middle of the night. He didn’t bargain. It was all good. But he was also a good sleeper, and (possibly more important) a heavy sleeper. He would sometimes fall asleep on the couch, leaving us our bed for a couple of hours at a time.
Things are different with Avery. She doesn’t even like to sleep until we are both in bed, and she is the lightest sleeper imaginable. A soft whisper will wake her, and God forbid you sneeze. It’s frustrating on many levels. Yes, she naps, generally in her “boat,” which is her name for her infant car seat. Thank goodness for that boat, because until she started napping in it, she’d only nap on top of one of us, pinning us to the couch for the duration. For the first year or so, I’ll be honest, I didn’t care much. As a 40-something new parent, I was too tired to contemplate sex, and my hormones were all out of whack anyway. Add to that the ongoing stress that comes from unemployment, and you can (hopefully) understand why my libido was in a depressed state. No sex? Who cared? I didn’t have the energy anyway.
But Avery is now 22 months old, and my hormones have stabilized, or returned with a vengeance. I am happy to report that I am still very much in love with and attracted to my husband, and on occasion I would like to be able to express those feelings. But when you are sleeping with your 22-month-old daughter in between you, that’s pretty difficult to pull off. In fact, we’ve found it to be more or less impossible. Diaper changes are the most action our bed sees. It’s very, very sad. And frustrating. Incredibly frustrating.
My total inability to have sex naturally increases my desire for it. I think about it, I dream about it. Now I’m even writing about it. My fantasy life has become so active it could have several cable channels devoted to it. There’s always something to watch on the Frustrated Mom Cable Network!
What I don’t have is a solution. My in-laws live nearly an hour away, and my mother-in-law is recuperating from a recent illness. There wouldn’t be a good way to drive the kids over there, leave them, turn around and drive back, then return there to pick up the kids and drive back again. Holy gas-guzzling impossibility, Blogman! We can’t afford a babysitter, so that’s out, too. I exist in a state of perpetual frustration; I feel like a teenager some days. It seems ridiculously ironic that I am with my husband virtually 24/7, and we can’t find a good way to spend a little quality time between the sheets. Or on top of the sheets. Or on the floor, or the couch… or in the freaking backyard. Honestly, the location isn’t terribly important at this point. What’s a frustrated mom to do?
Don’t answer that.