Okay, maybe I've been reading too many magazines, but the popular consensus seems to be that the first and third trimesters are sexual wastelands, while the over-hyped second trimester, oh baby, is supposed to be a veritable Roman orgy. Something about the increased blood flow to the nether regions is supposed to transform the most nauseated, bloated incubator into a sensuous sex kitten in perpetual heat. Needless to say, I took much comfort in that theory my first trimester and eagerly anticipated the transformation. Halfway through my second trimester, I'm still waiting.
Don't get me wrong, things are just as excellent as they ever
were, but I was led to believe that there'd be some profound
change in my libido. The closest I've ever come to being a sex
kitten is the alarming resemblance I now bear to my fat cat who
can't change positions without grunting and groaning, due to her
girth. I used to make fun of her, but now it's not so funny
anymore. At first I rationalized that since there's hardly
anything sexy about insomnia, leg cramps and backaches, this
should come as no surprise. Ironically, I'm having plenty of
vivid sex dreams, but they're always with men that I'd never ever
consider swapping bodily fluids with in my waking life. Like some
cruel joke, the grosser the guy, the more likely I am to have a
graphic dream that would make me cringe and shudder upon
awakening. Again, so not good for the shaky libido. I mean,
heaven forbid I should have a dream with a hunky celebrity or
Despite all my fretting about my burgeoning body, my husband seems very enamored with my new shape. Maybe it's because I actually have T & A for the first time in my life. My pre-pregnant body wasn't all that different from the body I had as a scrawny, 13-year-old girl, eagerly waiting for some signs of development. It's been a long wait, but I finally have a womanly shape. So why don't I feel more vixenish?
It suddenly hit me like a lightning bolt one day while gabbing on the phone with a close girlfriend. She was overcome with horror because her mother made an off-handed comment about her unsatisfying sex life with her father. Nothing graphic, nothing too detailed, but this comment so filled her with revulsion that she couldn't finish her dinner. She was forced to visualize her parents as sexual beings and no matter how old you are and how close you are, that's something you never, ever want to visualize. We giggled and commiserated over this phenomenon of aging moms, especially divorced moms, who mistakenly think that their grown children can handle the gory details. Public Service Announcement and note to self: No matter how hip and with it you think you are, your kids will never want to hear the slightest allusion to your sex life. It will scar them forever and they will make fun of you behind your back.
Anyhow, my friend went on to say, "Just think, soon you'll have your own child to gross out just as much." How very true. It was a moment of epiphany for me and the deep-seated source of my flickering libido. Literally overnight, I was transformed from a woman in the sexual prime of her life, to somebody's mom who is having sex - just like my parents used to have! Now before you mothers out there get your undies into an indignant bunch and lecture me on how vital and sexy mothers can be, let me ask you, can any of you visualize your own parental unit knocking boots without a wave of nausea and quickly changing the mental channel? Uh huh, I thought so.
Come on, this universal aversion to parental nookie is so primal there was even a famous Greek tragedy about this -- "Oedipus Rex." You know, THE Oedipus behind "Oedipal Complex," for those of you who slept through ninth-grade English class. Heck, when Oedipus realized he'd unwittingly married his own mother, he went completely berserk and poked his own eyes out! And by all accounts, his mother, Queen Jocasta was quite a hotty. But that doesn't matter, because there's no greater horror than seeing your parent as a sexual person.
I have some of the most laid back, sexually liberated friends around. But mention the word "sex" and "your parents" in the same sentence and they revert into 9-year-olds on the playground collapsing into hysterical disgust screaming, "Eeeeeeewwwwwww!" I have one friend who still suffers from a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder because she walked in on her father chasing her mother around the bedroom naked when she was a teenager. Of course, ever since she told me this story, I bring it up whenever possible and it never fails to induce screams, tears and eventually, a catatonic state.
When I was in college, friends and I used to play a stupidly game called, "Would you rather...?" It's a simple yet absurdly entertaining game consisting of two horrible scenarios (usually sexual) to pick from. The goal of this game was to showcase your sadistic creativity and cause maximum discomfort in your opponent as they writhed and sweated between the two options before reluctantly having to pick one. The one thing I learned from this game, besides how to elevate procrastination to never-before seen heights, is that everybody would rather be flayed alive, boiled in oil and have their liver eaten by buzzards than to think about, hear about or even hint at parental nookie.
Irony of ironies, in writing this journal entry at all, I'm doing
the very thing that will torment all my future offspring to no
end. One of my reasons for keeping this journal was the hope that
my child could read this someday. Maybe I could save this entry
for when my son or daughter is especially bad. Then I'll just
pull out this journal entry years from now and torture them with
the knowledge that no, they did not hatch from a jumbo-size egg
as so fervently hoped, and that yes, mommy and daddy did do the
horizontal mambo at least once. Why not? A little suffering