And now on to a serious subject …

(Disclosure:  this post talks about adults having consensual sex.  If by this point you do not want to read further:  there are cartoons on Disney Jr to entertain you, you prude!) Sex.  It’s a pretty serious subject.  We have already discussed the sex talk in previous posts so, my lovely readers, you know how serious I am about it.  Obviously with 7 kids, I kind of have had sex before.

Sex with kids.  Not having sex with kids.  That is a serious and illegal subject but not one I am going to give credence to at this point. I’m not a paedo for gods sake.  I am talking about how parents are able to still have sex with children in the house.   It’s like an Olympic sport.  Not the sex part, although it can be.  I mean the planning of said activity.

In our house, it starts out several hours in advance.  S.O. will give me the side eye and make charming subtle comments like, “Hey, can we get it in tonight?”  I melt.

 

lily%2520liam%2520eggsSo you thought you were going to do what, Mommy?

I start planning out the timeline.  Feed kids dinner. Get kids to complete chores without having to result to violent threatening and loss of freedoms.  Bathe small children.  Attempt to shave legs and other parts in bathroom sink while bathing kids.   Answer questions from #6 about why mommies have to shave.  It involves a lot of  “you’ll understand when your older.  You can thank your grandmothers Eastern European genes for the necessity.”   Meanwhile, S.O. is watching t.v in the living room, completely oblivious to the pregame activities taking place.

Kids bathed. Check.  Kids in jammies.  Check.  Kids tucked into bed.  Unchecked.  #6 has a sixth sense when mommy and daddy need some alone time.  Her entire mission in life is to prevent said alone time.  She will complain that she cannot sleep in her bed because it is: lumpy, haunted, too small, too big, too cold, too warm, scratchy, not mommy’s bed.  She will request me to read her a story. Fine. Reading is fundamental after all.  She picks out a tome.  Not happening.  We read a book about Taylor Swift.  Followed by Q&A from #6 about everything we just read.  Now we need a drink.  Now we need to potty.  Now we need Daddy.  S.O. comes upstairs and sits with her until she falls asleep.

I decide to make sure the sheets are halfway clean, brushing off the crumbs that #7 and I managed to get everywhere from eating chips in bed earlier, as you do.  I spray some Febreeze to set the mood.  And to hide the smell of S.O.’s work clothes that are so tauntingly thrown NEXT to the hamper.   #7 whimpers over the baby monitor.  It’s okay, he is not crying so no need to check on him.   I start the shower and jump in, expecting S.O. to come in at any minute. Try to look sexy with shampoo in eyes and half shaved legs.

Get out of shower, wrapped in semi-clean towel from kids bath earlier.  No S.O.  Tiptoe to #6’s room to check on them.  He is snoring in the rocking chair, T-Swift book dangling from his hand.  #6 has her finger wrapped in his other hand.  Gently wake him up while he exclaims in a still-trying-to-sleep tone, “Huh, whhat?”

Maybe tomorrow night it will happen.  For tonight, I will guide him to bed (crumb-free) and let him sleep.  All the pre-game activity has worn me out as well.  But definitely tomorrow.  Maybe the day after.

 

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