5 Reasons I (& the Newborn Who’s Glued to Me) Aren’t in the Mood For Sex

When my son was born three months ago, I had a lot to think about:  Was he latching-on properly? Did he have a cold? Would he ever sleep through the night? My husband and I battled with sleep deprivation, dirty diapers, hunger cries vs. gassy cries vs. overtired cries. It was a lot to get used to, and it consumed our every conversation, thought, and dream.

Here’s what I wasn’t thinking about: Sex. After childbirth, my vagina felt like the mosh pit at a Gogol Bordello show. I was way too exhausted to even contemplate getting frisky, but after about a month I got the feeling my husband was good to go. Great, so, he was ready, but was I? Not to be a total buzzkill, but sometimes I wish I could just break it down for him, like this.

1. Like I said, I’ve got a newborn glued to me 24/7. Cumulatively, I probably breastfeed for about eight hours a day, and when I’m not doing that, I’m burping him, changing him, making him giggle, or carrying him in the Baby Bjorn while I clean, cook, or run errands. When, exactly, do you think I have time for sex?

2. I’m still fragile. I know I basically pushed a watermelon out of that same exact hole, but the idea of putting anything back in it? Well, that’s still a little bit horrifying.

3. Move the f*uck over. When you put your hand on my butt in the middle of the night and try to wiggle a little closer, do you hear that sound? That frustrated, snorting, suckling sound? Yeah, that would be the newborn again (yes, again!) trying to feed — you know, in order to stay alive? — and no, I do not feel like multi-tasking so you can get a 2 a.m. booty call.

4. Please don’t stare at my body. As you know, dear husband, in the past nine months I have gained 20 pounds, pushed eight of ‘em out of my vagina, and am left with a doughy puddle where my washboard abs (hey, a girl can dream) used to be. I’m glad you’re still hot for me, but my tummy/ass/thighs are making me a little bit self-conscious right now.

5. Get your hands off my boobs. Sorry buddy, but my breasts are not your funbags anymore. I know I’ve gone up a cup-size, but I am a milk machine now. These puppies are full of liquid gold, and I don’t need you jostling them. If it helps, think of my body like a mullet: Business on the top, party on the bottom. 

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