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 Sadly, the panther had been replaced by a different cat, something more like the douchey, Internet cat that is running on the treadmill or riding around on a Roomba.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.
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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 to nookie.
Reason 9: I'm parched, all over. Breastfeeding dehydrates you, everywhere.
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.
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