I have sex.

You know, with my husband…mostly…I don’t own stock in D batteries for nothing (wink, wink….um…totally exaggerating darling, you are a tiger in the sack. roar.).

So yeah, I said it.

Please note my keen ability to announce to the world wide web my gift for getting it on, yet when it comes to the acknowledgment of any type of activity that alludes to the assumption of intercourse in the immediate presence of my parents, I run away like a screaming 4 year old.

I am pretty sure my parents still think I am a virgin.

Thanks, mostly, to the amazing job I have done making sure that no evidence of sexy time has leaked into their immediate environment.

Like, the morning after our wedding, you know, after you are supposed to spend the previous night consummating the fuck out of things, even though you are super tired, you have blisters on your heels and you smell like cake and armpit sweat? Well, we showed up to our day after brunch, not with messy sex hair and covered in lube, but rather with an airtight story of how we spent the evening discussing politics, eating freedom fries and playing Dr. Mario.

Genius! I know!

So, then comes the messy situation of getting knocked up, on two, now three occasions…and that’s when things get tricky.

I looked, like, everywhere for the face of Jesus on chips or a piece of toast to solidify my immaculate conception argument a bit, but came up empty handed. I mean, what does a person have to do to get a decent, believable stigmata these days!?

And, in all honesty, things are just getting to complicated. I mean, sex alone is hard enough with two boys running around, most times we don’t even get to take actual clothes off, and we find ourselves on stair landings and in closets, just to keep things in earshot so no one loses an eye while we are gone.

I need to suck it up and surrender my Daddy’s Princess crown while I still have some dignity. Who are we kidding here? Daddy’s Princesses don’t have incontinence or this weird random hair growing near their nipple that you totally plucked a month ago, but it keeps coming back. They’re sparkly and innocent,without bags under their eyes or episiotomy scars.

This is where my life is at, folks.

The scary crossroads of middle adulthood, paved with life insurance premiums and stool softener.

Where people have intercourse with other people, and their parents totally know about it.

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