The other day I got an email asking me if I was making motherhood sexy.
Gosh, I have no idea. Was I supposed to be? Would my kids describe me as sexy to their friends? Have I been doing this wrong the whole time?
I mean, it ended up being an email about pole dance exercising, which I deleted because it combines two things that I hate; taking my clothes off in front of others and lifting my own body weight, but it made me think.
Of all the instances in life I was supposed to be sexy, I thought motherhood would be one of the times I could tap out. Granted, I read exactly zero books on the subject, and got most of my pre-parenthood knowledge from old episodes of Tool Time, I didn’t know how to look sexy lugging around a baby carrier while wearing a poise pad the size of a Chipotle burrito. I have no idea how to sensually fish a booger out of my daughter’s nose with my pinky finger. I can’t master coming off as erotic with the giant vein bulging out of my forehead as I whisper death threats to my kids in the checkout line at Target. I don’t even think the alluring scent of my pheromones can make a dent through this layer of foreign body fluid that coats my skin and clothes on the daily.
I feel like the people who find motherhood sexy shouldn’t be near children, or, like, within 100 feet of schools.
Does Andy get emails with tips on how to make fatherhood look sexier? Because I mean, he’s hot and stuff, but I can’t tell if I’m attracted to his fathering skills or just the fact that he’s doing some of the crap so I don’t have to. Romantic Comedies dictate that we swoon over men who are good with children or pets, but considering the first baby I ever saw Andy come into contact with was punted to him out of my contracting vagina, I guess I’m an anomaly.
But, that email still bugged me.
Do you think I’m sexy?
Do you think I’m sexy when I’m being a mom?
Well, when aren’t you being a mom?
Bingo. I was always being a mom, the same way Andy was always being a dad, and after six years and some change, I think we forgot how to turn that off so we could be sexy in a non-child related way. And I don’t know what that stupid email stirred up, but I really needed us to be sexy in a non-child related way, which is something we both totally struggle with, mostly because we’re tired zombie shells of our former selves.
So, I took Andy out to dinner where we could talk in private, and it turns out, he was just as annoyed by me mom’ing him as I was him dad’ing me. So we laid down some ground rules over sushi.
It’s off-putting when you say the phrase “num nums” when you’re playing with my nipples.
It’s a little emasculating when you cut my meat for me.
I like when you call me mama, but like, only when you make it sound telanovela exotic and not Dora exotic.
I don’t like when you spell out sex words. Or when you sing dirty talk to the tune of Don’t Bite Your Friends. It messes up my rhythm.
Ticklefights are not foreplay.
If you finish first, don’t cheer me on in the same voice we use to get Gigi to go in the big potty, it’s weird.
When the kids go to sleep, you can either watch Duck Dynasty or have sex. You can’t combine the two.
I like that you name my penis. I don’t like that you named it the Ferocious Beast.
I know the wet spot on the bed is probably apple juice, but for a second, I’d like to pretend it’s not.
We clearly had no idea how annoying we had become. Let’s just say, by the end of dinner, both of us were asking for the bill using our big person voices.