My kids have ruined my sex life.
Not for the reasons you might think. My wife and I aren’t too tired. I still think she’s sexy after having kids. Hell, you could roll my wife in axle grease, give her a 1977 perm, and add 30 pounds, and it wouldn’t deter me from my husbandly duties. We’re not too busy.
It’s them: les petits saboteurs. They walk around on little ninja-rabbit feet. They are silent, sexy-time killers. We never know when they’re just going to pop their head over the edge of the Serta and ask for water. It got so bad that we couldn’t do the wangdango at all.
“Oh baby, I love how — did you hear something?”
“Everything’s fine, sweetheart, let me just —“
“I think he’s coming up the stairs! Get dressed!”
Desperate, I created impassable walls of stacked empty Coke cans outside our room. I dragged my desk across the hallway. I Matterhorned dirty laundry in the doorway. They still made it in.
The light flicked on, exposing us waaaaay en flagrante. I nearly broke my collarbone whipping the blanket around us. We thought we’d scarred him. His mom was already dialing a therapist, because the kid was howling.
“Oh my god — that’s sex?!!”
Earlier in the year, my daughter had gone on a field trip to the soul-crushing museum of sex-will-never-happen-this-way-ever. She raced home, saying “I saw a penis at school today,” then explained in lurid detail the mechanics of sex and the danger of STDs to her brother while I convulsed on the kitchen tile.
Right after that, we thought they were hypnotized by a Disney flick. We snuck upstairs only to hear from the foot of the stairs, “You’re not doing it are you? Are you doing it? Mom? Dad? You’re gonna get a disease!”
We couldn’t win.
Our sex life descended into negligence. We eventually just watched old movies and ate microwave popcorn.
I’d had enough. My kids needed to get some outside exercise, and I needed to get some inside. I announced, “Kids, watch a movie. Mom and I are going upstairs.” The girl asked, “What for?”
I fixed a level stare and said “dancing lessons.”
We stomped up the stairs and plopped onto the bed, looked into each other’s eyes, then started bouncing (fully clothed), shouting “Oh, yeah! Oh, baby! Woo hoo!”
They ran screaming out of the house.
This worked perfectly for three weeks. The kids were losing weight and getting tan. My wife and I were a lot calmer. By just saying “dancing lessons” they would split, and we could watch “Downton Abbey” without interruption.
One day I was lost in my work, and I couldn’t hear myself think over the noise downstairs. So I stomped across the floor, jumped on the bed, bounced up and down and shouted, “woo hoo!”
But I forgot a couple of things: First, they had friends over. Second, my wife was at work.
They thought I was, in the words of Billy Idol, dancing … with myself.
The therapy is working. I think the kids will recover from it soon. But, honestly, I hope not. We drop them off for a 45-minute session once a week. There’s a cheap hotel next door.
We’ve never been happier.
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