Moms in Babeland

Sex After Baby. The Anal Beads Will Have To Wait

Great re-post from writer “mommy wants vodka”, who writes for one of our fave blogs, Toy With Me:

After my son was born, my doctor was busily discharging me from the hospital and in the middle of her discharge instructions, she looked at me conspiratorially and said, “Now, NO sex until after your six week appointment.” I’d swear that she winked at me then, but maybe she had something in her eye, because I don’t know if it was my bleary, tear-streaked face, or blood-shot eyes that gave me away, or perhaps it was the three days worth of beard growth on my husband’s face, but the last thing on my mind (even BEYOND, hey, I wonder what would happen if I ate the DO NOT EAT packets in the medicine bottles?) was getting busy again.

I’d just pushed 8 pounds of baby out of my cootch; 8 pounds of baby that was now attached to my now-pancake-sized nipple, and I could barely waddle to the bathroom without weeping in pain, so, trust me, Good Doctor, the last thing I want to do is stick something up a hole that has now been stretched out, once again. My husband, The Daver, wasn’t in any better shape, as he’d suffered through the male version of pregnancy alongside me, although his penis had escaped the ordeal unscathed.

The  Anal Beads Will Have To Wait

The first weeks home with a baby are always a blur unless you’re flush enough to afford live-in twenty-four hour care. They have always found me more focused on staying alive and not killing myself (or anyone else, for that matter) rather than giving a spectacular blow job. When given the green light by the doctor at my six-week postpartum visit, I’ve always dutifully filled my birth control prescription and just…waited. Just because my episotomy has healed and my vagina has stopped leaking afterbirth goo has never meant that I was particularly ready to jump back into the sack, nipple clamps and anal beads at the ready.
My Boobs Are Leaking

Before you write me off as a prude, hear me out: it’s just that by six weeks, my body is nowhere near back to feeling like, well, my own again. Always one to turn pregnancy into a full-body experience, it takes me at least a year to get the *ahem* sixty pounds of baby weight off, and until that point, I sort of feel like an Oompa-Loompa, only less orange. Or maybe a Weeble, only less plastic. Feeling fat, even if it’s baby fat, isn’t something that’s ever made me particularly feel sexy and never something I’ve been able to forget even while on the receiving end of toe-curling orgasms. My breasts themselves, always known as fun-bags in my house, have turned into two leaky taps, occasionally spurting forth liquid if the wind (or mood) hits them just right. Being doused with breast milk, while certainly it has a fetish market, has never been my idea of foreplay. Nor were the lilting crescendos of my screaming baby reaching a fever pitch in the background just as I was working my elastic waisted pants off.

I Just Want To Survive

My babies have also all been particularly clingy, soothed at first only by nursing, which meant by the time that I was able to dislodge their tiny mouths from my beefy nipple and tiptoe carefully away the absolute last thing that I wanted was to touch (or be touched by) another person. Besides, if I’ve been given the rare opportunity to be alone in a bed with my husband without my children present, it’s more likely that we’d be snoring before you could say “lube that bad boy up.” In the grand scheme of things, for me at least, the first year of life with a new baby, having sex swinging from the rafters roleplaying as the Easter Bunny and a can of Spam kind of takes a back seat to surviving.
It Has To Be Normal right?

For some strange reason, this always has made me feel sort of, I don’t know, guilty, I guess. It’s not as though Dave hasn’t been unfailingly kind about it because he is just as preoccupied by the whole “survival” thing as I am. And it isn’t as though my Mommy Friends all have sex swings with which they regularly taunt me with stories of steamy trysts of threesomes with hot college babysitters (after, of course, the kids are in bed). I’m pretty sure that I’m just another one of the bleary-eyed, mini-van driving masses to tired to get off.

To make matters even weirder, I know better than to beat myself up too much about this.

My Inner Sex Kitten Will Be Back

There are five whole years between Kid One and Kid Two. Five years, sixty pounds, and two different men. I’m fully aware that after about that one year mark, just as I’m blowing the candles out on that first birthday cake, I will bring the sexy BACK once again. My inner sex kitten will be released and we’ll be roleplaying Dora and Boots again in no time. Once, of course, the children are snugly in their wee beds, dreaming no doubt, of sugar plums and candy.

Certainly, things have changed in the years since I’ve had my children. Gravity hasn’t been *ahem* kind, and babies have stretched out corridors that maybe were once a little tighter (some might make a hotdog down a hallway joke here, but that is neither here nor there), and my stretch marks clearly show that I have been through, well, a battle. Three times.

I don’t look like a twenty year old any more, and that’s probably good, because I’ll be thirty next year. And really, who the hell wants to be twenty again? Maybe I’ll a little softer in places, a little rounder and a little looser, but I have something that no plastic surgeon can ever fix: confidence. And fulfillment. That, my friends, is sexier than any set of hooters I’ve seen.

Tell me, how was sex after baby for you?

Reposted with permission from “mommy wants vodka”, who writes for one of our fave blogs, Toy With Me:

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One Response to “Sex After Baby. The Anal Beads Will Have To Wait”

  1. Joe says:

    There’s no such thing as “normal”. Two weeks after my wife’s somewhat difficult delivery we were having (non vaginal) sex. Our lovely little girl is cholicy as all get-out, but we still mess around a couple times a week. She’s asleep, wife and I hop in bed and hold each other as we get ourselves off. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

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