First postpartum sexual encounter:

As I am getting out of the bath, with the baby asleep, I think now is a fine time for some intimacy. Naked, I sneak into the living room to surprise my lazing around husband on the couch.

As I take off his pants:

Me: Hey stud, am I bothering you?
Mr. Neruda: Ummm, no, no you aren't in anyway.

Kiss, kiss.

Me: Why'd you stop?
Mr. N: We don't have a condom.
Me: What?!?!? Why do we . . . oh yeah, I'm not pregnant anymore.
Mr. N: Yeah, we need something now.
Me: Where were all the ones from before?
Mr. N: I threw them out because they were out of date. You were pregnant for a long time.
Mr. N: I forgot!
Me: But didn't you go on and on and on and on about how this is the week I get my doctor's pass? About how it is sex week? About how we were going to do it? Are you kidding me?!?!?!
Mr. N: Well. . . I'll go get some! Right now! It won't take long I swear!
Me: By the time you get back our sweet child will probably be awake.
Mr. N: No, no I swear he won't be, just wait. (As he trips around the room trying to put his pants back on. Six weeks is a long time).

It is at this point I would love to make a joke about the scene in Shopgirl where he asks if she has a jiffie bag and they could use that. But then I remember my slumbering angel in the next room and realize that jokes about me getting pregnant six weeks after birth are in no way funny AT ALL and I stifle the urge.

Mr. Neruda exits stage right in a hurry while a resume my after bath hygiene tasks. Then, a frighteningly short time later (seriously, did he drive 90mph and run all stop signs?!?!) he returns with a LARGE smile on his face as he is opening the magical box while trying to fall sexily on the couch.

Me: Don't you think the moment has passed.
Mr N: No.
Me: But at this point I think he really could wake up at any moment and then won't you feel REALLY frustrated?
Mr. N: No, he's fine. He is sleeping hard I'm sure. And you know . . .
Me: Well . . .
Mr. Neruda: (Sultry look with a finger gesture)
Me: Okay.

Kissing commences. Clothes are pulled off. As we are locked in a naked embrace we hear:

Little Man: SQUAWK.
Me: Um . . .
Mr. N: It was nothing.

Kiss, kiss.

LM: Squawk, squawk.
Me: I think he is, maybe . . .
Mr. Neruda: (Stops for a moment) No, I think it is just his sleepy sounds. It's fine.
Mr. N: Shit.
Me: Yeah.

Clumsily clothes are pulled on as I stumble to retrieve my Little Man. Frustration ensues until we see Little Man and his adorableness. The smiles and coos helped soothe the terrible ache.

Timing appears to be essential in parent love making. I always heard that but never put much stock into. Oops. What else is true about the horribleness of parenthood?!?!?!

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