Silent. I have been silent for a while. Working, playing, sleeping, dreaming.
Not blogging, but silent.
And through this time I have received two questions regularly:
(1) When are you going to write about body after baby?
(2) When you are you to write about…. er… marriage *wink wink* after baby?
I thought about it. Really I did. Long and er… hard. And really, that latter two is probably the easier to address. Really. So here we go.
It’s Mother’s Day. It’s a special occasion. You remember those from your dating days, right?
And, in the tradition of the dating days, in preparation for such, I don my french knickers and camisole set the night before
And, I drift into a beautifully sexy, sensual sleep.
I awake, about 2 hours before I am ready, and glare at Wes. “I can hear the baby” he says. Fair enough. Blurry and grumpy, my day turns around when Sam’s big (newly)-toothy grin greets me. He provides the ray of sunshine the blackout curtains (installed when he was 3 weeks old) deny.
I love it. I love him. I roll with him, and we giggle and kiss and cuddle and play, and he fusses and I scowl and Wes says “Shall I get him breakfast?” and I nod and down they trot.
2 hours later I wake up, alone and luxurious, in my sexy silk Pajamas. Like a cat, I languidly stretch, having appreciated the gift of time and then I loll, lazily, out of bed.
I am up late and it is a little cold. I retain those sexy silk coverings, but I do throw over my grey Target dressing gown over the top of them, and I descend the stairs.
I am greeted with a beautiful family picture: my husband enjoying the news on TV, watching over my perfect baby, who is contentedly lolling in his playpen (my baby… not my husband). I curl up on the sofa and raise one sultry eyebrow:
“I am wearing my sexy Pajamas”.
My husband’s face lights up, he smiles and … he hesitates… “I was about to get breakfast”.
Obviously. I was under no illusion and I concur “Of course! Sam is awake”.
Wesley smiles, and with a wicked grin says: “But he naps…” and he dutifully dashes off to McDonalds.
Indeed he does… nap that is….
But by nap time I am clad in a hair-dye-stained charity T-shirt and pair of torn denim hotpants (sexy at 19, utilitarian at 31), my hair scragged into a top-not, my arms deep in potting soil. My husband is in his old army T-shirt, fingers deep in.. wait for it… a model train from 1951.
He’d like a pre-war one.
We don’t notice the opportunity.
4 pm races around, faster than the now setting sun, and bringing with it long shadows and cooler soil. I jump in the bath with my son (always my son now… we waited so long for marriage, and fulfilled out Christian edict, waiting for the promise of endless of sexuality; but finding the reality of motherhood and a pantechnicon of plastic penguins and waterproof squeaking books).
But it’s OK. I am clean and my SECOND (I only have 2) pair of sexy pajamas are donned.
I come downstairs and Wes grabs us both, clasps us in a hug, and tells Sam how much he loves him. Tells Sam how much I went through to have him. Thinks (but does not say) that finally, finally, he would go through it again, he would lose me, to have his little boy. He doesn’t say it, he only thinks it. But I kown he thinks it. But it is OK, because I thought it 6 months ago.
Instead, Wes says:
“I am so grateful to your Mom. She loves you so much, and she is such a good Mom and such a loving wife. She is so good to us”. As the sunset casts a red glow on his tears he blames the onions diced for my special Mother’s Day meal.
Giggling, my husband and I each crack open a beer, and toast the day, while giving Sam his steamed sweet potato. I go upstairs, feed Sam, place him in his crib. The beautiful, still rose, evening is broken by Sam’s screams of anger… but restored within 3 minutes.
The sleep training was worth it.
And now. Now it is our time. Adult time. My (second) sexy pajamas are still on, I am laid out on the sofa and before me is a nice bottle of red, and a black ‘n’ blue salad Wes has gone to lengths to perfect. We enjoy our shared meal, and our shared gratitude at our manifold blessings to an episode of ‘House of Cards’.
Spacey is brilliant. His depiction of complex, faltering relationships faultless. We discuss our admiration over a beer and a wine. The episode ends and we put on ‘Britain’s Got Talent’. We crack open another beer, and pour another glass. We cackle into the episode; I reveal my as-yet-undiscovered operatic ability (clearly better than the girl who is through because she was fat and dowdy but had a reasonable voice) and Wes pooh-pooh’s the dancers as he moonwalks to the bathroom.
I snuggle under my blanket in my (second) sexiest pajamas. We trade dirty jokes.
The episode ends. Neither of us are quite sure why we feel so drunk. I think about it. Ahhh… our first big celebration since pregnancy… and birth… and breastfeeding… and wobbly tummies and saggy boobs and stretch marks and sympathy lbs and under-eye bags and exhaustion and responsibility and a love neither of us expected.
And a sharing of everything that we just didn’t plan.
So light headed. So happy. So fulfilled. Our eyes meet across the room. The strap of my (second) sexiest pajamas falls down my shoulders. We grin.
“Final feed for Sam in 20 minutes?”.
And so we go our own ways…. 20 minutes is enough for a blog post, a book review, some hobby research… but not much else.
20 minutes is up. We go upstairs. One of us gains a precious few extra minutes of sleep. More than that, a few minutes sprawled on the bed with TIME AND SPACE TO YOURSELF. The sheets are crisp, the silence unbroken. The space and time all your own.
The other gains a few beautiful minutes with Him. His trusting face drinking from you in the night, softened by the moonlight through the window. A rare glimpse of Him, all yours, all silent. The life you love so much so very still for just a few moments. Even when He is replete, and asleep, you stare at Him a while longer and marvel.
Of course, while you are marveling and staring, your spouse has snatched those extra few moments for sleep. And when you break away and come to the bedroom and you curl up next to their exhausted body and snuggle in, you appreciate their recovery and envy their recovery.
Together, as one, you slip into oblivion.
And so you sleep. Your celebratory day ends in a celebration of all you have created and all you have cared for, and all you have made. You are replete, full of love and happiness. You are exhausted. You sleep. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
You sleep and you wake in your (second) sexiest pajamas to a new day. Happy and blessed and expectant and satisfied and just so damn f*cking happy. And you rush for work.
Your pajamas signal hope and promise and you don’t care that that is all they offer. You’ll wait.
That, to me, is sex after baby.
Or am I the only one?