I really like to have sex.
I am also the mother of three beautiful yet dreadfully time-consuming children.
These two things may be related.
We are fortunate enough to have a nanny during the majority of the daylight hours but when 5 o’clock rolls around we are very much on our own.
Alone and out numbered by our small army of demanding spawn.
We are also dumb shits who practice co-sleeping with our kids, which makes the evening hours particularly precarious.
For myself personally there exists two time periods in a typical day that I will generally attempt to line shit up in such a way that the possibility exists for me to procure sex.
I generally go into heat shortly after afternoon tea. I am not sure why this happens only that it does and is clearly ingrained in my circadian whore rhythm. The husband creature is generally more than willing to oblige but he is also painfully aware that our ability to do so is sort of contingent on a few key factors.
Firstly, any clear and obvious indication that we are mutually retreating to the privacy of our bedroom mid day while there exists another adult human being who is under our employ hanging around is sort of awkward.
Seriously our nanny has the worst job ever.
I am pretty sure our son employs some sort of organic radar that knocks him into obnoxious overdrive when he senses even a hint of a hint of a possibility that his parents could even be thinking about engaging in an act that could result him having to share his toys with even more people.
I am pretty sure it is some Darwinian shit for reals.
Little Homeboy does not like for anyone to go near any of his stuff.
Basically he is an enormous cock block.
I can tell you that attempting to engage in any personal activity that will directly result in chubby two-year-old fists hammering on a locked bedroom door causing a seemingly traumatized nanny to come and retrieve him is an exercise in futility at best.
‘Mom, mommy, mom, ma, mama, MOM!’
Annnnndddddddd I’m done.
Ain’t nobody getting theirs under the hail of gunfire of that variety.
So basically we could get a hotel room or try to find a secluded spot outside but you reach the point where aligning the stars to such an intense degree so you can simple fuck totally becomes more trouble than it is worth.
Also it is pretty fucking cold outside.
Generally the next time I will decide that we should probably have sex is while we are cooking dinner and particularly so if I have been unable to procure sex earlier in that day.
The kids have a strange tendency to leave us to our own devices while dinner is being prepared with the exception of popping by from time to time to tell us how hungry they are, or that we are taking to long, or that they don’t like what we are making or just a general comment about how we are failing them as parents.
So during this time with only a couple boiling pots and a preheating oven there to bare witness I will generally up the ante so to speak.
‘Oh weird I accidently spilled a bit of olive oil on my heaving breasts!’
‘I read an article is Cosmo about how olive oil is a really underrated moisturizer. Maybe I will just rub it in slow motion while you watch. Jesus. I am such a klutzy cooking whore.’
‘This kitchen is just not big enough for two people to work in!’ I will digress while grinding my ass into his crotch in our very spacious kitchen.
‘Do you think they spray a lot of pesticides on zucchinis? I am not sure best it is best to be safe then sorry, right. I am going to just wash the shit of out this one with my bare hands in the sink. Feel free to critique my zucchini washing technique. I am sort of out of practice and this is a very, very dirty zucchini.’
On a typical day by the time dinner is cleaned up and the kid’s bedtime rolls around my poor husband is like a loaded gun.
This is generally when I will offer to put the kids to bed and encourage him to go and relax a bit before we are free and I can attack him blindly like a olive oiled up little mongoose.
She’s on the left; she’s on the right.
Weaving around that cobra like lightening.
Factoid: The mongoose is the only natural predator of the cobra.
Ricki Ticki Tavi, Mutherfucker.
So I take the little bastards up to bed and we cuddle up and talk about dinosaurs and shit for like ever.
Keeping my son actually in bed is always a pretty heady chore.
He is extremely nostalgic about his personal belongings particularly at bedtime and will get up at various points – in which I am supposed to be having sex – to retrieve yet another armload of trucks and cars that apparently need to sleep with him.
I have actually started employing the development of his first fear, coyotes, to deter his consumption of my personal time in this manner.
Honestly what sort of mother tells her son that coyotes like to bite the bare bums of little boys who get out of bed at night time?
So I am lying there under a small mountain of Tonka next to little dude who is no doubt going to have epic nightmares about his ass getting eaten by coyotes and that is when I generally commit my EPIC FAIL of the entire evening.
I fucking fall asleep.
So my poor husband who is probably waiting this out by flexing for his self in the mirror and doing lunges and whatnot starts to wonder what the hell is taking me so long.
He comes in the nursery to find me unconscious and buried alive under a substantial pile of yellow metal and three children.
Here is the thing about trying to dig me out and rouse my cataleptic ass.
First of all, you basically need a Masters in Paleontology to successful unearth my dead dinosaur self with out disturbing the surrounding bedrock that is the three sleeping children around me.
Secondly, I don’t wake up well.
‘Not well’ is actually a colossal fucking understatement.
The truth is you are sincerely taking your life in your hands should you try to wake me up once I have fallen asleep.
I can get down right violent.
Think: Don’t poke the sleeping bear.
I am obviously using the word poke both literally and figuratively.
I generally say a lot of shit that doesn’t make any sense, will occasionally try to donkey kick you and then will have absolutely no memory of the altercation the next day.
The next day being a particularly awkward time for both my husband and myself.
Typically I will open my eyes, realize it is getting light out and immediately grasp the reality that HOLY SHIT I did it again.
Whether or not I am still buried under a pile of toys at this point is a pretty big indicator for me of just how much damage I have personally done.
If I have to dig myself out then it is generally all good.
I imagine he too passed out while posing provocatively on our bed and I can pretend that I didn’t fall asleep and he is the one who is a life ruiner.
Usually that is not the case.
The case being that I have been loving unearthed ala Tonka and he is likely sporting a few bruises.
I will valiantly attempt to redeem myself by making coffee, which I will present to the husband creature with a delightful ‘Good morning, you handsome, magnanimous and extremely forgiving man’.
I generally also serve up a green light to personally serve as the target of some bullshit lesson in geopolitics or what fucking Arsenal did that morning or something else I could truly not give a rat’s ass about.
If that is not openly permissible flogging I don’t know what is.
Such is the sex life of parents of three.
So spring is here and the likelihood of developing frostbite in place you really don’t want to develop frostbite while engaging in recreational outdoor pursuits is basically at our doorstep.
So I guess what I am saying is it is really best if people call before popping by for a visit.