Post-Partum Passion

….or how I Am Officially Back In The Saddle, again.

It is somewhat better to be ‘in the saddle’ than ‘in the stirrups’ I suppose, although upon reflection both items simply involve activity around my you-know-what and whilst it isn’t entirely unpleasant per-se to be indulging in the horizontal folk dance after such a prolonged drought, I’m tired enough that it also doesn’t rate all that much higher than those damn stirrups.

To be brutally frank about it, certain things probably wouldn’t have happened but for Long Suffering’s ever-optimistic wink-wink-nudge-nudge, reference to the delicate navy hue of certain round appendages and gentle plying of myself with half a bottle of wine. Clearly the male libido is not to be throw off by such piffling items as:

1. Sleepless nights.
2. Caring for twins.
3. More sleepless nights.
4. Items 1 and 3 ganging up to make for one shrewish wife, liable to fly into an impressive snit at the slightest provocation. Really. I think I yelled at poor Long Suffering for about half an hour on how much I hate it when he splashes water all around the sink with great abandon whenever he goes remotely near the damn thing, and doesn’t he know we’re in a drought anyway, and on that acquatic theme why exactly is it that he always manages to disappear for his hour-long shower right when a particularly scream and poo filled feed time looms? And so on. The poor man.
5. Item 2 ensuring I usually carry the alluring faint aroma of milky vomit somewhere about my person. If he’s lucky. If he’s unlucky it’s the faint aroma of some much less pleasant items.
6. My abdomen, or how it oh-so-sexily goes wrinkly all over and enthusiastically flops out to the sides when I lay down.
7. My breasts, or how they seem to have taken direction from my abdomen in all matters topographical with the result that I can now store them for safekeeping in my armpits at night.
8. Relating to item 6, my ever present granny corsets. If they aren’t the height in passion itself, well I don’t know what is. Tricky knickers be damned. I’m surprised a veritable string of suitors aren’t beating a path to my door at the mere twang of their heavily loaded buttressing.

I jest, but clearly the man still wants to shag me, either proving that most men will screw anything that moves in the right circumstances, or that the male libido is remarkably resistant to reality.

Either way, the die is cast and I’m sure sooner or later we’ll repeat the experience and therefore I am actually going to have to start thinking seriously about the most wryly amusing of infertile post-partum issues.

Contraception.

Whilst twins are in fact an excellent contraceptive agent being as one rarely ever has the chance to have an uninterrupted shag ever again (or actually feels like it), and pregnancy does not cure infertility (this point probably rates a memo to any obnoxious urban legend tellers about the suicidality of such remarks. See also: ‘Just Adopt and You’ll Get Pregnant’ for other trite comments designed expressly to render the utterer subject to a short, but devastatingly lethal blast of Bitch Face and Death Stare), regardless of all of this and how much I do actually adore my Little Tyrants and how much I would like another someday I don’t want it to be in forty weeks. If you follow my drift.

As I see it this leaves me with four options:

1. Never have sex again.
2. Take the tiny risk of a Britney Spears style back-to-back baby bonanza.
3. Have a bash at the old Vatican roulette.
4. Pick an actual contraceptive method.

As for item one? Ha. Clearly that particular seal has been opened.

Item two (a.k.a Oops, I did it again, the foetal version) makes me break out into a plain old-fashioned cold sweat right after I finish the manic laughter and stop sobbing convulsively.

Item three would require some sort of menstrual predictability. Unfortunately that’s part of what got me merrily having needles shoved though the walls of my whatsit in hopeful search of ovum while a theatre full of people looked on with just a little too much enthusiasm for my liking in the first place.

I’m working on item four, believe me…..

Coming up:

A memo to Long Suffering: The Motherf*ckers Ball is Not An Appropriate Nursery Rhyme.

and later….The State Of Flux.