32
“Not to take all the credit but,” Jenn starts as we sit down in her office. She gestures at me with her hand, which is full of street taco. “This is all thanks to me.”
“Do I get any credit? I’m the one busting my tail at tennis and spin class.” I’m wearing a new shift dress today and I guess it shows off the hard work I’ve put in over the couple months since our last conversation about getting my groove back.
She pauses in fake consideration. “I’ll allow it.” I smirk. She adds, “And send a sincere you’re welcome message from me to your ass. She is looking right and tight.”
“That got weird.”
She just shrugs.
Bobby knocks at her door. “You wanted the reports from last quarter. Did you mean in here?” He smiles at us tentatively.
“Yes, I meant in here.” I nod. “Hopefully you found them after I reworked the shared server?”
“Of course,” he scoffs. “Like it’d be hard to find anything in a folder after you’ve gotten a hold of it.” He looks to Jenn for reinforcement.
She pauses with her taco halfway to her mouth. “Yeah. Totally.”
“Aw,” I smile. “Thanks guys.”
He holds eye contact with me for a beat and then nods once.
As he leaves, Jenn pretends to choke. “Can you even walk with his head so far up your ass?”
“It’s not easy,” I quip back. “He is quite the suck up.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” She gives me a weird look. “Again, I’m sad I just don’t like the young ones. I keep trying to see if I could fan a flame there because he’s got that tight runner’s ass, plus, you just know he’d be eager to please in the bedroom, like a golden retriever happily hunting for my orgasm. Like my pleasure is a little tree branch I threw across the park.” A huge laugh escapes me as she sighs. “But alas. Not a single ember to be found.”
“You need to start dating again. All this ass talk and you’re a couple comments away from a trip to HR.”
“It’s not dating at my age. It’s The Hunger Games.” She leans in across her little coffee table toward me. “Speaking of, how is Project Romancing the Stone?”
“Ha! Weird movie but perfect name for the whole operation. Trying to get through to Adam is exactly like romancing a stone.”
She sits back, disappointed. “Remind me again why the tennis didn’t work out?”
I finish taking a sip of my vitamin water and explain. “Ummm because I mentioned it to him and he grunted ‘Who has time for tennis?’ before walking away. Didn’t even look up from his phone.”
“He was distracted, then?”
“We’re always distracted. And I wasn’t going to push him just to be rejected twice. Can you imagine how painful and awkward it is to ask your own husband if he wants to spend time with you?” Her face twists in displeasure. “I’m just a wife, standing in front of a husband, asking him to love her.” I edit the Notting Hill line to fit my situation. “Then, then he says no!? Ugh.”
“I’m sorry. What about the lingerie set?”
“Still has the tags on.”
“Susan! That was weeks ago you bought that!”
I open my arms wide. “And? If I’m not at work I’m momming, feeding, cleaning, big sistering, or sleeping, nursing, pumping or randomly leaking. Or wishing I was sleeping. I fell asleep on the toilet once a few weeks ago. Just sitting there in the quiet, slumped right over.”
“No!”
“Yes! Besides the soul-crushing new parent exhaustion—which, if I were bitter and crusty I’d add feels very one sided these days—how much rejection can one woman take here?”
“Pffff, come on, rejecting tennis is not the same as rejecting your hot body wrapped in lace, my friend. No way in hell he says no to that.”
“But what if he does?”
She sets her food down just so she can clap her hands for each word, “Susan. Do. You. Want. To. Get. Boned. By. Your. Hot. Husband?”
“Can I reply without clapping?”
She chuckles and picks her food back up. “You can but it’s not nearly as fun.”
“Yes. I miss having sex with him and I think it’ll be good for us to reconnect.”
“Then send your little sister back to your Dad’s, put your adorable babies to bed, get that little set on and stand in front of him. That’s all you have to do.”
I tilt my head, unsure. She thinks it’s so uncomplicated because we’re married. But it’s complicated because we’re married.
It’s not like before, with flirting and innuendo during the day so that when we finally got home from work we pounced on each other. It’s been months since we’ve had sex, now neither of us knows how to initiate without it feeling super forced. There’s all this pressure and fear of rejection, not to mention resentment, exhaustion, pent up frustration and compounded insecurities.
Ugh.
“Stop thinking. Put it on. Stand within his line of sight. The end.”
“Okay.” I finally answer.
It’s worth a shot.
_____
Put it on. Check.
Stand in his line of sight…
Ugh, why does this feel like such a big deal? We’ve been having sex for fifteen years! Okay, so I don’t look like my twenty-two year old self, obviously, but things have firmed up a bit since the baby. This pj set is loose but still sexy, lacy, flirty. I feel good. Not great, but good.
I grab my phone and check the baby monitors. It’s still early but the later it gets, the more zonked I’ll be. All three boys are asleep. It’s now or never.
I walk out into our master bedroom. It’s a romantic space, complete with a four poster bed draped with sheer linens. Whites, neutrals, ruffles, texture. It’s dreamy, really.
Our interior designer installed soft uplighting that adds a warm dim glow to the ceiling, and our bedside lamps are on. Adam’s on his phone in an undershirt and boxers. The sheet is pushed down because like always, he’s hot. At least these days our internal thermostats are similar.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey, how was your day?” He murmurs out of habit without looking up.
Don’t sigh. Don’t be mad. He doesn’t know what’s happening.
“Adam.”
He looks up.
His reaction is immediate. Visceral. Primal.
He puts his phone on the dresser behind him without taking his eyes off of me.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and gritty.
I can’t help but grin. He grins back.
This. At least we still have this.
I turn off the lights, not quite ready to get busy in the bright just yet. I climb into bed at the same time that he pulls his shirt off.
Instantly he’s on me. So fast I laugh. He laughs too.
“I like this.” He says with the strap of my top in his teeth.
“Good,” I sigh the word as his mouth peppers my neck with kisses.
He kisses slowly down my chest, holding himself back from grabbing and squeezing and sucking. I’m relieved, because after the first two boys I had to remind him again to avoid my nipples. He says he doesn’t mind the leaking but I do.
I start to relax as his hands and mouth move lower, slowly and gently moving in the rhythms I know so well. Because they always work. He always plays my body like an instrument, soft and slow at first, then faster and harder, until it sings for him. Until I am moaning his name and coming apart all over him.
But my body doesn’t seem to be cooperating this time. I’m sure it’s me, too up in my head. Too…irritable. His soft touches feel…not right? I don’t know. I do know it’s been a while that he’s been at it. Before I can get too anxious, I pull at his shoulders.
“I want you.”
“You sure?” He looks up from between my legs with a frown. This is not how we normally do this.
“Yes, right now.”
At least he’s fully functional. Hard as a rock and huge as ever. He gives me what I want, sliding home with a groan. But…again it’s like our rhythm is off. He hisses in satisfaction and I close my eyes.
Focus.
I run my hands all over his warm, bulking frame. I grab his ass, I dig my nails in.
It works.
For him.
“Damn, I’m not going to last much longer.” He says.
“Okay, harder then.”
Finally he lets go.
And I moan, for real.
Yes.
This.
This feels better.
“More.” I say.
He listens.
Then I moan again, louder.
Yes.
Almost.
Maybe I can c—
“Mommy?”
What…WHAT?! NO! Nononononono
I throw a frozen, panicked Adam off of me.
“Hey bubba,” I squeak out, searching for my bottoms under the covers. I try to sound calm. “Did you have a bad dream?”
My six year old nods, his face twisted up in confusion.
Thank you Lord that your Holy Spirit Above prompted me to turn off the lights!
He couldn’t have seen much.
“What were you doing?” Eli asks.
“Just hugging,” I say as I climb out of bed, bottoms on but twisted a bit.
I pick him up. “But why were you making that noise, Mommy?” He asks with a yawn.
“Uhhh, that’s just a sound I make when it’s a really, really good hug.”
“Oh.” He says.
My heart is pounding as I try to redirect him. We cross into his adorable little room. “Want your t-rex in your bed to keep away the bad dreams?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, buddy, let’s get him.” I pull the stuffed dinosaur down from the corner toy hammock and tuck it under Eli’s arm. I get the blankets all tucked around him and can tell, unfortunately, he’s not anywhere near falling back asleep. I grab a board book. “Let me read a little bit and then you’ll have to go to sleep.”
He nods.
I read.
And read.
It takes two and a half books before he finally nods off. Even then, as soon as I move, he tenses. So I sit. And wait. I yawn, wondering what time it is. Wish I’d brought my phone in my pjs pocket. Rookie mistake.
Eons later, he’s fully out.
I check on the other boys, pausing to run my fingers over the crib. It’s a habit I developed with Jonathan, running my fingers along the smooth edges. It was comforting back with the first baby. And maybe with Eli too. But now it just reminds me about how Adam and I fought.
I wanted help getting ready for the baby. I had a printed spreadsheet I was trying to tackle from The Bump, all the things we needed to do and buy and research. I wanted him to go through it with me in the evenings.
He wanted to slave away in our garage alone, for months, designing and carving a crib from scratch.
It is a beautiful piece.
But it’s also a visual representation of Adam wanting to be elsewhere, doing other things, and me nagging him with my lists and plans.
I sigh, then make my way back through the house to the bedroom, slowly. I’m not sure how I’m going to relax right now. Or how I’ll psych myself up to ever have sex again in my entire life after that!
Talk about nightmares!
I brace myself as I enter our doorway.
Luckily, Adam is already snoring away on his side of the bed.
I sigh, relieved and maybe a little disappointed. Definitely annoyed as my mind starts to race and my boobs start to tingle. I should’ve had him do the damage control so I could squeeze in a little nap. Why couldn’t men be the ones to nurse?
The lace strap itches at my shoulder, so I decide to swap the cute new set for my oldest, comfiest nursing tank and my favorite sleep shorts. And good thing because the second that my body stills in bed, and my internal temperature cools and my brain settles…
The baby wakes up to eat.
_____
“I’ll get it,” Adam says with a squeeze of my shoulder when one of the boys calls out the next morning. It’s light out, probably minutes away from my alarm going off. Time for the morning rush.
I get up and get the baby and the pump and set myself up in the recliner. I can hear Adam feeding the older boys breakfast. Once I’m done nursing and pumping, I put Mikey in his bouncer and take a quick shower. Once I’ve got clothes on and a towel on my head I go out into the kitchen to assess the situation and help. The boys are probably ready to get dressed and Adam probably needs to shower soon or else he’ll be late.
Just as I reach the island, I hear Loretta arrive in the front hall.
“Miss Lettie!” Eli cries with glee before hopping off of his stool and across the hall to where his nanny stands.
Then, it’s like it’s slow motion.
It can’t be stopped.
It’s inevitable.
Eli reaches Loretta.
I look at Adam. He looks at me over his coffee cup. Our eyes go wide. I turn to try and say something, anything, but I’m too late.
“Mmmuuuuuuhhhhhh,” Eli moans.
My son.
Just moaned.
At his nanny.
Adam spits his coffee all over the counter and flees, laughing and sputtering.
My body reacts by coughing. Is it a laugh? Is it a sob? Am I hyperventilating? Who knows! Not me! I just cough and cough until Loretta pours me a water and asks if I’m all right.
“Yes.”
No. I may never be all right again!
I flee to my master bathroom through the laundry room off the kitchen.
Adam’s still laughing when I reach the shower.
“This is your fault!” I half yell, half laugh at the shower door.
“Me? You put on the outfit!”
“Yeah, well you can kiss that thing goodbye!”
He laughs more, “I liked it!”
“I’m aware! And since we’re never having sex again, I won’t be needing it!”
He sighs at the end of another big bellowing laugh. “We will.”
“Nu uh!”
“I’ll take you to a hotel.”
“A hotel in another country!” I joke.
I can hear him squirting shampoo into hands. “That’s okay. Mexico’s not far, Sexy Spice.”
“Can you not?!” I yell back, specifically about the Spice Girls reference. We agreed to let those nicknames die, mostly because my sisters got a hold of them and turned them into Uptight Spice or Anal Spice, and he knows it.
I hear in his voice that he’s still smiling but I’m not. Sure, the sex moan from our son is a little funny. Maybe a lot funny. But last night was supposed to get us one step closer to rekindling, reconnecting.
Instead I feel like we’ve been pushed backwards.
It’s not just the horror of being caught either, either. The sex itself was…different. And not in a good way.
And if sex is all we have left these days and even it doesn’t feel right…what does that mean?
I’m not sure, but I’m not feeling very hopeful anymore.