This morning, I noticed my husband perk up and raise his
eyebrows when he caught a brief flash of flesh as I was getting dressed. As I did not lock on to his expression or
give him a response, he followed up with a catcall-y, "YOWWW!!!" Hopping on one leg while struggling to pull
my jeans on, I looked over at him and made a really dumb face.
I don't even know what was going on with my
face, but in my mind I was trying to convey a sad apology. You see, prior to having the baby—even up to
the last days of pregnancy—I would have been all over his raised eyebrows and
Goose-From-Top-Gun howls. I had never
been one to pass up an opportunity to "get down." I knew what response my husband was
envisioning—I look his way, narrow my eyes, bite my lower lip and slinkily walk
or better yet, crawl toward him like a panther to her prey. The normal me wanted to give him that. But, to his disappointment, he was not
getting the normal me this morning. Nope. Sadly, the panther had been
replaced by a different cat, something more like the douchey, Internet cat that
is running on the treadmill or riding around on a Roomba.
Yup, I've been replaced temporarily by the "postpartum me" which, these days, meanders in and out of my identity like the Dr. Jekyll to my
Mr. Hyde. This morning I did no such
slinky walk; I just stared at my husband blankly—eyelids drooping, dried drool
at the corner of my mouth—and limped away. As annoying as I knew my response was, that's the only way I was able to
play it. It had nothing to do with my
fine-ass man; he's always a blood
pumper. It had everything to do with the
fact that I'm still in the eggshell state of postpartum-hood and as such, my
brain wasn't fully able to convey to my body that the moment could be hot.
Six weeks, they say. Six weeks after baby is when the passion all kicks off again. Perhaps we women are physically capable at
that time, and yeah we can do the ditty, but we may need just a bit more time to
get back to panther mode. "WTF!?" the
husband may say. Well, Champ, let me
touch upon just some of the reasons a mother of a newborn baby may not be in
the mood for reverse cowgirl.
Reason 1: The smell of spit up in
the air. It's on my clothes, it's on
your clothes, it's on the bed, it's on who knows where, but I can smell
it. Hey guys, remember how many times
you used to say, "Baby, go put on that hot cop outfit, throw up all over yourself
and arrest me"? That's right, you've said that zero times. True, baby barf is not as foul, but it’s the
same idea: Vomit is never hot.
Reason 2: My boobs, which are
extra plump and juicy these days … were just suckled on by a baby.
Reason 3: The baby is watching
us. Yeah, she's in the bassinet right
there. Coos and gurgles mixed with
groans of passion? Boy, if that doesn't
dry things up like a Brawny paper towel …
Reason 4: I'm crying. My hormones
have me all over the place, and I'm crying. Well, there's comfort sex. But
even to an avid Hallmark Channel fan, that's still just creepy and sad. Who wants to have sad sex?
Reason 5: I've slacked off on my
grooming efforts. The waxing that used
to happen every few weeks hasn't happened in 10 weeks. Needless to say, I'm not feeling my sexiest
down south. I've come up with a new
name—Sascrotch. I have a Sascrotch.
Resentment doesn't usually lead to the humpty hump.
Reason 6: I'm pissed that I've
changed the last five poopy diapers. If
your hands can take the time to bat around my swollen ta-tas, they can surely
find the time to wipe a poopy tush. Resentment doesn't usually lead to the humpty hump.
Reason 7: I was in the mood, but
then I started crying. Did I mention that happens a lot?
Reason 8: Hey honey, remember when
I was driving, and you tugged on my underarm flab to the beat of that Pitbull
song? Yeah, that was never going to lead
Reason 9: I'm parched, all over. Breastfeeding dehydrates you,
Reason 10: I just saw
myself in a nursing bra.
As my husband remains patient and slightly frustrated, I
assure him that this state is only temporary (I also remind him of who carried
and birthed this bundle of joy). The
baby will soon sleep in her nursery. She'll sleep longer, I'll sleep longer, things
will get back to normal and the Sascrotch will go back to being the mythical
creature it once was. We both know that
this very unsexy time is a small price to pay for the lifelong love, laughter
and joy that will come from this child. I'll get my groove, my ROWRRRrrr back soon. And I promise it will be full on. But I can't promise that I will ever stop
watching videos of cats on treadmills. No, I can't promise you that.