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.