All the Sex You’re Not Having After Baby
After giving birth, my libido was buried with my skinny jeans in the depths of my pre-pregnancy closet. Skinnies, like my sex drive, were a joke. If I had to list what came before a romp in the bedroom, it looked like this:
Things That Came Before Sex
· Everything and anything
I think that about clears it up. I’m not proud that the horizontal mambo became an afterthought. Or, that vacuuming took precedence over bumping uglies. The thing is I never thought it would happen. Oh, how boastful I was about how a baby would never change my sex life. Nope, no way. Never.
Yep, totally changed it.
It got to the point where I faked sleep. As soon as I heard footsteps coming up the hallway, my eyes would shut and seal. Unless my partner had a crowbar, there was no way I planned on opening my eyes. And then I began referencing euphemisms for my lack of a sex life like: it’s just a “dry spell.” As if I needed a meteorologist in my bedroom to predict the forecast and barometric pressure for the next ten days.
My single friends were horrified. And I was too. What was the point of having a baby if I was certain I would never be able to make another one? You know, because of the self-imposed chastity belt I was wearing. As a holier-than-thou single, I would listen to sexless horror stories and shake my head. I loved my partner and thought him to be drop-dead sexy.
But the reality was sex was no longer a priority. Sleep felt just as good and, if I could get my hands on a book before I fell asleep? Bliss. Scratch that. If I could get my child to sleep without waking up during the night, angels with harps could be found dancing around my head.
Sex became another thing for me to get done and check off my to-do list, which is the exact opposite of sexy. Or romantic. Sex was supposed to be passionate and spontaneous. Yes, I already had the disheveled hair, but that was because the phone was ringing and the baby was crying and then the dog had to go outside and, did I mention, it was 100 degrees in August?
Rarely does life actually resemble a romantic comedy. If it did, I would be writing a sex column about wearing my Manolo Blahniks and living in Manhattan. This column is, just in case you were confused, about yoga pants, disheveled hair, and no sex. Emphasis on the latter.
For me, my sex life got better as soon as I took the pressure off of myself. It took me years – which sounds like a jail sentence – but my libido came back. Sex, for me, was just like riding a bike: you never forget how it’s done.
And with that, I’m going to end this with a frisky bicycle reference.