Closed for the Season

Like the jaw of a snapping turtle, my vagina slammed shut after the birth of my daughter. Postpartum sex is always met with ambivalence and resignation, but this time around I found something I had not bargained for. I was expecting to be loosy-goosey after two vaginal births, ready to practice Kegels with intense ferocity in the grocery, while driving, while teaching poetic devices, but instead, the muscles of my vag played a cruel joke upon the already precarious so-called-sex-life in my marriage.

The doctors diagnosed me with "vaginismus" an involuntary muscle spasm in the vagina caused by stress or trauma. Are you serious? I'd never heard of such a thing--my vag had a mind of its own? Holding up a sign up saying, "Sorry, closed for the season, come back next fall?" My husband was not going to buy this one. Then came the proposed treatment: a host of anti-anxiety drugs and muscle relaxers along with the introduction of a sex-coach. This last one made me laugh. The spectrum of images associated with what a sex-coach might look like ranged from a hairy-legged man propping one foot up on the side of the bed dressed in polyester athletic shorts and a whistle, to a creature akin to gnome, a sex fairy poised at the edge of the bed examining angles and technique. Thanks, but I'll pass.

Opting out of the western sex-remedies, I tried acupuncture and after two sessions, it exhaled. But just because my puss relaxed, didn't mean our sex life resumed to the impressive pre-parenthood caliber. Sex with children (you know what I mean, that sounds awful) is always a curious procedure sandwiched somewhere between nap time and Windexing the greasy fingers off the front door. Every Sunday at 2:00, my husband lurks around me like a Pavlov dog, sniffing around for the bone I'm supposed to throw him. And I succumb for maintenance purposes, as sexy as a turnip, hoping no little eyes find their way through a keyhole. My friend's clandestine escapade occurs Saturdays at noon in the bathroom; she tells her kids, "Daddy and I are doing our bills."

I'm fortunate enough to have a solid marriage; I still find my husband attractive, honest. It's just the damned giving that exhausts me and sucks the passion from my loins. A simple equation: (needy children)2 + dirty house + demanding job = the lubrication equivalent of sand. Until I can figure it all out, don't call Sundays at nap time. Fifty-two times a year ain't bad.

Firing Squad

Amidst my frantic, coffee-induced French toast making this morning, I heard the most disturbing story as NPR blared in the background. In Utah, an inmate on death-row was executed by firing squad, this being his preferred method of extermination. What the what? Checking to make sure I indeed woke up in the right century, I stood motionless, spatula in hand, only to hear the latest reports of BP's oil spill in the Gulf. Yep, right year; wrong direction.

I've always hated guns myself--they seem so barbaric and loud. An obscene penis extension that somehow seemed below me, besides, when I was seven my grandma told me driving down the road in her VW Rabbit that my bio-dad had shot himself. How was I to ever appreciate firearms? You think you have everything figured out before parenthood. As if I could definitively check the boxes, "For Peace" and "Against Guns." Easy, this would be the basic philosophy from which I raised my highly in-tuned, balanced boy. But then came Iron Will.

Please don't get me wrong, my son is not a psychopath...he can be very loving and perceptive at times, AND he loves guns (a statement I thought I'd never proclaim, I'm not far from an NRA bumper sticker at this point). My husband, Billy, and I vowed not to let our son watch violent shows and saw our pre-children abode decorated with art, free of plastic noise-makers, and above all, toy guns. We buy organic food, I breastfed, we watch independent films. But I realized none of this mattered the day my son picked up a Certified Organic sweet potato from Whole Foods and said he was going to shoot me with it.

This was not the last of these freakishly sadistic statements. We've heard, "Give me chocolate or I will destroy you, Mom!" as tiny finger-guns were aggressively fired at my face. His soft jaw becomes uncomfortably obtuse when he juts it out to accompany his finger artillery proclaiming, "I'll shoot you cars if you don't move out of our way," from the backseat of the car. While driving the other day I was completely unaware that he was rapidly firing at any object that came in our path: stop signs, street lights, puppies, old ladies... Do we have a problem here?

What is it with boys' intrinsic gravitational pull toward weapons? I've even found myself pushing the sword as a diversion for the gun (I dunno, it seems more noble). My mom thinks it's hysterical, the irony of her grandson possibly joining the Marines or something someday. She actually bought him a rabbit pelt and discussed hunting like some back-woods granny in a coon-skin cap. At this rate, my hands are up in exasperated surrender. Fire a way little man.

Welcome to my madness

First of all, I never thought I'd have a blog. I have kids. Who has time to read a blog when they have kids, right? But then school ended and I became obsessed with getting back into the swing of writing, so why not? The most logical topic for my blog, of course, would be parenthood because to say I'm completely immersed in it would not be a lie. To say it's what I know, would.

Parenthood has taught me a lot about myself and the world around me. For instance, I didn't realize it (the world) did not revolve around me until I had kids. I've also learned about a host of medical conditions through my children and the aftermath they've inflicted upon my body. But, it's not all bad. I've also learned patience, cunning, and the art of bribery. I eat healthier, I recycle more, and drink less. Not a terrible trade-off for that fact I always pee a little when I sneeze and have to pay a shit-load just to get out of my house without my children.

But this isn't about being without children, its about what goes on when we're together and I'm supposed to be in charge. That's a joke. So, welcome to my blog. I promise to tell the truth, but have to admit I'm a natural exaggerator and would rather you laugh that be bogged down with mere details. Hopefully you will enjoy a slice of our lives; anyone that has kids knows: it's a learning process. Welcome to my madness.