After I gave birth to my daughter, while I was learning how to be a mother and make the shift from me, myself and I to her, her and her, the relationship building that struggled the most was the relationship between me and my husband. I knew him as a BFF and a super cool, funny, hot dude, but, I did not know him as Dad and he did not know me as Mum and we were still grappling with the fact that they gave me fishnet granny panties at the hospital that I thought were kind of sexy; the way they subtly covered my new, belly flab, but also held a GIGANTIC poise pad.
Then we went home and we didn’t make plans to see the new independent movies together anymore. We made plans to make home movies. The incredibly boring kind where madly in love first time parents take 4 hours of tape of their kid drooling and going cross-eyed and then subjecting said tapes to friends who never call again.
Then, my entire world shifted to nothing but baby as I became madly, obsessively, restraining-order-y in love with my baby and my husband, yeah, he was cool too.
But, he wanted to have sex and I didn’t. At all.
So, after shoving him away because I was tired and milk was spraying out of my breasts like a fire hose and, I was still wearing the hospital fishnet undies because I was rocking the shit out of them, he finally said to me in the bathroom one day,
“Honey, I think there is something wrong with you.”
And, after the record player scratching sound that lasted ten minutes in my brain stopped while I death stared him down, I said, so calmly, like the calm before the murder storm,
“Oh, you do. What do you think is wrong?”
And he not picking up on my silent, murderous rage said,
“You never want to have sex anymore. I think you need to see a doctor. I think you may need to have some blood drawn to make sure your hormones are ok.”
And then all of the crickets of the world started chirping in unison to get the point across while I opened my mouth so wide, and for so long, that a bird built a nest in it.