I’m going to talk about it today. You know, the elephant in the room.
I’m just going to go right ahead and blurt it out – before I got married my sex life was all like “Whoa, Cowboy, leave your boots on and make like we’re in a rodeo”, but post babies it became more like “Woe is me, this is friggin’ pathetic”.
I used to hear people make jokes about sex after marriage and I always swore that that would never be me. I love sex. Sex is fun.
It relieves stress, it gets the blood flowing and binds you to your partner so they’re much less irritating, plus it feels damn good.
So, why did my married sex-life become the epitome of these jokes?
Where did the mornings of languorous lie-ins coupled with coupling go? What happened to the wild abandon on the dinner table, kitchen bench or lounge room floor?
You really want to know? Here it is (if you don’t have children, stop reading here. Children are awesome and they bring much joy to your life – Go forth. Breed.)
I was tired … too tired for anything other than spooning, certainly no forking.
During the night I would be up at midnight, then two, three and 4am, and again at 5am and then I was up for good by 6.30am. I could have fit in a quickie if I wasn’t desperately trying to catch two minutes more sleep (average time of married-with-small-children morning sex – FACT)
We could kiss the morning coitus farewell because until I was showered and caffeined I was a zombie and no one wants to bone a zombie, except, perhaps, optimistic fellow zombies, but I just gave him ‘the look’ and we all got the picture.
Sometimes during the day I would think ‘tonight’s the night’. I wanted to do it. I really did.
Sex is a fantastic way to connect with your partner and prove that you are still a sexy, sexual being and not a just a sexless Stepford Mumbot, but then 5.30pm rolled around and, although the spirit may have been willing, the body was weak.
Washing, feed, sleep, tidy, play, feed, sleep.
Folding, feed, sleep, tidy, play with toddler, feed, sleep.
Tidying, yell at toddler, tidying, sleep, feed, big glass of wine.
Kids to bed, dinner, tidy, bed.
Are you asleep yet? Are you horny, baby?
There is no spontaneity because there is bugger all time for it.
No nookie on the dining table because I would have no doubt ended up with a toy plane or a baby fork jammed where the sun don’t shine, and frankly, I don’t know how you come back from that trip to the emergency room.
Kitchen counter?
Much the same but add the fact that we had moved to suburbia and any number of neighbours could have looked in and see me in flagranté, as the beast with two backs…that would be awkward over-the-fence conversation, no?
I didn’t feel at all like a mewling sex kitten, but suspiciously more like a mooing dairy cow. It’s really hard to feel all va-va-va-voom when your boobs get all Niagara at the drop of a hat.
According to urban mythology ladies peak sexually at age 40, so I was fast approaching my prime.
I had been in this predicament before, after the birth of my first child….and you know the only way I got over it?
Get on it, to put it indelicately.
I set the challenge for a week of nookie. Seven times in seven days (gasp)
We may not quite have pulled it off (pardon the pun), but it made me start thinking about sex more.
The first couple of roll arounds were a bit of a chore, but then I got in the swing of things. Mojo builds mojo, if only you can muster the mojo to get the mojo rolling.
In the meantime, whilst we await the elusive mojo, anyone for a spoon?
Danielle Colley
*Danielle Colley is a writer, blogger and mum. She is a regular contributor to The Weekly and other online and print publications.
You can see more of Danielle on her blog, Keeping Up With The Holsbys, or her Facebook page facebook.com/keepingupwiththeholsbys.*
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