Having your children catch you having sex is – or indeed should be – every parent’s worst nightmare.
My supersonic hearing apparently didn’t work too well this morning. It was 5:30 am(!!!!). Our bedroom door was closed and we thought we’d enjoy a little adult mud wrestling – without the mud, slutty clothes or actual wrestling.
My mummy superhero hearing knew to listen out for the creaking of floorboards, the little ‘tap tap tap’ on the door, followed by “mummy, daddy – good morning” announcement that we’ve taught them to be overly conspicuous with.
Listen: Holly Wainwright and Andrew Daddo talk about tackling the sex talk with kids, on our podcast for imperfect parents. Post continues after audio.
Out of habit I randomly throw my eyes towards our door, turn my head to the side (which can be incredibly awkward depending on positioning) and listen. Normally it’s a nope, no kids. Door still closed. All good.
EXCEPT FOR THIS FREAKING MORNING.
I turned my head to look at the door and it’s WIDE OPEN. This is the ONE morning our kids decide to be stealth ninjas. I threw the husband off (and out) and then hear our girls whispering because THEY’RE STANDING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE OPEN DOOR!
They’ve obviously opened the door, seen Dad’s nude bits on Mum and then quietly retreated to stand on the other side of the open door to work out what to do.
We looked at each other with horrified expressions while yanking the doona up to preserve what little modesty remained. Talk about closing the gate after the horse has bolted.
WHAT. THE. HELL.
“We want hugs and kisses.”
Yeah well, we did too 30 seconds ago but you just royally screwed the pooch on that one kids. So, hugs and kisses and the kids leave the room. We both just looked at each other with a combo deal of horror and amusement – OK, 99 per cent horror. We both optimistically (and stupidly) hoped there was a chance they didn’t see anything.
My husband went out to see all three kids and was immediately met with our seven-year-old.
“Dad, why weren’t you wearing any clothes?”
“I was just about to get out of bed,” he said.
“And what were you doing to Mummy?”
“Ummm, Mummy was cheeky and I was wrestling with her.”
“But why weren’t you wearing any clothes while you were wrestling her?”
“Um, Daddy, has to go to get ready for work now….”
I lay there mortified but also grateful that he was on the receiving end of these questions. I just lay there praying to the Big Man upstairs that our kids wouldn’t go to their Catholic school with stories of their parents’ nude wrestling.
When I walked out, the first question I received was… “Mum, why were you and Daddy wrestling in the nude this morning?”. As my child asked this, our second (nine years old) smirked and did some weird hip gyration that will unsettle me for the rest of my life.
I responded the only mother way I could think of.
“OK kids, let's get breakfast, help me with the lunches, get dressed, find your shoes etc…”
I must have rambled for two minutes with a list of chores and the avoidance tactic worked.
Next time we’ll barricade the stupid frickin' door.