Now that Christmas decorations have been packed away, stores are dripping with the pinks and reds of Valentine's Day. My little girl has been asking about making heart-shaped cookies and, yesterday, my sweet husband suggested getting an overnight babysitter and heading into the city for dinner and a night at a nice hotel to celebrate the quasi-holiday.
I was really touched by his suggestion and, as his eyes sparkled with romantic intent, I pictured the fluffy bed of a hotel room I didn't have to clean, softly lit by candles. My heart skipped a beat, because I could only think of one thing.
More from YourTango: How To Raise 'Colorblind' Kids In A Racist World
At seven and a half months pregnant, I am awkward. I am tired. I am gassy. I am not, despite my husband's daily protests to the contrary, sexy. My libido is as MIA as my waistline, and although sometimes I feel like I should throw my husband a bone, I'm at the point where when it's bedtime, I have absolutely nothing left.
Unfortunately, pregnancy books love to tout the aphrodisiac properties of pregnancy hormones. At dinner parties, husbands like to tell stories about how their wife's pregnancies brought them closer together, wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Having A Baby Improved My Sex Life
I just want to punch all of them in the face.
More from YourTango: How To Help Your Kid Land A Summer Job
I have two small children already, and the little energy I can siphon off the oneish cup of coffee I'm allowed to have in the morning is long gone by the time they've made it through the day and are back in bed. Don't Let Kids Ruin Your Sex Life
And my lack of energy isn't the only obstacle cock-blocking my spouse. The physical logistics of third trimester sex are almost insurmountable. Having sex face-to-face allows only as much physical closeness as if we were smooshing a basketball in between us. (Know how the nuns at Catholic schools like to remind teenage couples to leave room for the Holy Ghost while they're dancing? With the space my bump needs, there's room for the entire Last Supper in between my and my husband's puckered and outstretched lips.) This may sound challenging and fun to you non-parental optimists, but I'm here to squash your dreams and tell you that it just isn't. It's awkward, especially when the smooshed basketball in question gets pissed off and kicks you to prove the point.