Apparently, married couples have sex an average of 127 times a year. That works out at about just over twice a week (or a fair few long, fun filled nights).
Just over one year ago I gave birth. I can promise you that the notches on the bedpost since then most certainly do not hit such heady heights.
Being the first one of my friends to have had a child, lack of sex after doing something considerably unsexy and painful with what was once but a playground of delight is a subject lost on them. So, blogging world, I bring you a sexy post. Bleeding, vaginas, boobies, the lot.
For a good while after giving birth anything sexy was the absolute last thing on my mind. Labour may not have been half as bad as I thought it was but I still felt like a truck had been driven out of my uterus. And I had to sit on a rubber ring for weeks. And I bled for an age. And I was privy to such frequent examinations from midwives that frankly I was getting enough action thank you very much.
Finally my bleeding stopped and my breasts deflated after formula was introduced and I embarked on the long road to getting my body back. Only I’m sure this isn’t my body and I’m still waiting, fourteen months later, for it to return.
I’m not too dismayed at how most of my bits and pieces fared growing and delivering a baby. My boobs are ok I guess. Maybe even a teeny bit bigger than they once were. But they’re feeding machines, things that my baby clamped her hot little gums around all day every day for a freaking eternity. They’re not fun or sexy, they are purely utilitarian.
My stomach is ok if I’m standing up or laying on my back, the problems begin when I deviate from either safe position. If I lean forward it practically scrapes my knees, if I turn onto my side in bed it moves quicker than I can and ends up behind me, in all it’s saggy crepeyness.
My vajayjay is certainly not the one I used to own. It never looked like this before, I almost don’t recognise it. I mean, that bit was never like that. And where has that come from? It all used to be so tidy!
And it’s not even like I can drink a bottle of wine and throw my insecurities, and my stomach, to the wind to get down and dirty.
I know that it’s nonsense. Of course my body is different now. I am heading ever closer to 30 and I’ve expanded with and subsequently expelled a child. I also know that my poor sex starved husband could not give two shits as long as he gets a quick go. So to speak.
So I can ignore the inner monologue as my whole body tenses when it feels a hand creeping round to my stomach; oh god, he’s going to touch my belly. But it’s all gross and saggy and gross. Ah, never mind.
What I am yet to overcome though is the thought that my body is no longer for sexy time ecstasy in a candle kit boudoir. It’s functional. Something pretty extreme came out of what has previously been an entrance only area, how do I forget that?!
So is sex after babies really such a minefield of flabbiness, exhaustion, trying to keep quiet so you don’t wake the kid? Am I alone in looking at my body as purely for practicality? Are you all at it five times a week and going to tell me firmly to get over myself?!
[Shameless plea: The MAD (mum and dad) blog awards are open for nominations and if you want to make me squeal with delight it will only take a minute. You can nominate your favorite blogs here.]
