Last night my husband and I went out to dinner. Alone. This is about as unusual as pigs flying.
It's been so long. How would we really like it? Was it too close? Would we actually lose touch because we were no longer forced to get creative when it came to finding those small moments of intimacy? Um... the answer is no. Oh my goodness, no. No no no no no. This tiny bedroom feels like the most luxurious hotel.
About five years ago, just after enrolling in graduate school, I read that—for married women—attending graduate school is sometimes the fast road to divorce. Yikes. More than two years after finishing my degree, my husband and I are still together—it's been 22 years now—and the D word was only uttered once, in the pitch of (a stupid) battle.
Six weeks ago, I was cruising through my happily-ever-after in a mid-size SUV. I had one foot planted in soccer mom territory, the other firmly in "I’m still the cool chick I was before I had kids" land. My vehicle reflected this. But five weeks and three days ago came the news that the stork had us on his spring delivery schedule. This is when my husband suggested the mini-van.
My sex life isn't exactly fireworks and handcuffs and a regular reenactment of the Kama Sutra. In fact, when my husband and I first decided to throw away the birth control pills and condoms and try for a baby, I worried: I wanted to be a mom so damn bad, but the frequency with which we had sex was definitely lacking, and I often experienced pain during sex. Amazingly, babymaking sex has totally improved my sex life.
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We're giving the big bedroom to our kids. It seems a little counterintuitive, but by squeezing our bed into the closet-like second bedroom, it gives us an outside shot at an adult space.
Yes. No. In my mothering lexicon, these are each complete sentences and everyone in my house knows it. Sure, I'm all for conversation, dialogue, discussion and open lines of communication. My husband and I like a good game of verbal volleyball, and we'll talk with our kids about almost anything. But I also reserve the right to not discuss, to sometimes employ just one word. Or make that two. No. Or, yes. Sometimes I don’t even explain. That's okay.
Being a sex writer and all, it seems as if I should now feel overprepared for the eventual sex talk with my future children, I'm not. I still wonder: how much do I share, and how much is too much? What if I tell my kids something, and they tell other kids, and I'm then approached by angry parents who feel I'm revealing too much? How do I know if it's too soon to share something with them, or how do I know if I'm waiting too long?
Famed mommy blogger Heather Armstrong—better known as Dooce—recently wrote about the reasons behind the dwindling coverage of her older daughter on her blog. She mentioned that her daughter had been squeamish lately about getting her photo taken, and also wrote that she now asks for her daughter's permission before mentioning her on the blog. It brings to mind questions that have been swirling around the blogosphere for awhile now: Do parenting bloggers compromise their chidren's safety by revealing so much online? Is this type of blogging exploitative? How much is too much, and where should we draw the line?