I recognise that look; that’s the look that started it all off all those years ago across the dance floor of a dark, Girl Bar night. That come-home-with-me-complete-stranger look. It was love at first sight. I woke up in your bed the next morning. But this is the couch. The TV is still on. Then I realise that’s no come-hither look, it’s the hundred-yard stare of an exhausted mama who’s fallen asleep mid-sentence with her eyes open. Yep, we’re mothers now.
I admit it, I had created fanciful visions of lesbian motherhood in my mind. My body would not only bounce back, but it would bounce into the shape of Sofia Loren. I would look like a Mediterranean Queen, my cherubic baby at my lush breast, while my Amazonian wife fed me grapes and chocolate. We would laze in the morning glow of a sun-drenched bed with our angel between us.
Listen to our latest podcast, Year One, about finally get a baby to sleep. (Post continues after audio.)
What mostly happened, though, was finding myself in a heap on the floor with a suckling beast attached to my nipple, and yes, I do mean my baby. Other times when I made it to bed, I’d end up sleeping on the very ribbing of the mattress with a small toddler sprawled across a queen-sized bed with hand placed protectively on Mama’s booby whilst jamming a foot in his other mamas (whom we very progressively dubbed Ima for our shared, though tenuous, Jewish heritage) ribs. Two mothers desperate for the touch of someone who didn’t pass wind every 20 minutes, we’d reach hands across the great divide and smile drowsily at one another.
See, the pickle here is that lesbian don’t really do quickies. Feel free to pipe in here, ladies, but in the meantime, I’ll go on. We lady lovers generally spend a seemingly insane amount of time ensuring the other is, well, looked after. It’s one of the major plusses of lady love; sure, we may not get a man to hold doors open or loosen a jar of jalapeños (I know, you’re laughing too, right ladies?) but sexual equality in the bedroom is a given.