The Dry Season

How I miss my husband. Back in the day, way, way, back in the day, we used to be good friends, and man, did we have fun together. We’d go hiking, camping, climbing. We’d do crosswords together stretched across the living room floor, read the paper together on Saturday mornings, mix each other dirty martinis, with 7 olives each, go dancing at least once a week and drink jugs and jugs of sweet, tangy Sangria, and have crazy foreign film festivals in the bedroom, eating Chinese, Vietnamese, or German take-out on top of the blankets.  
And we had sex. Did we have sex! Mad, delicious, breathtaking sex. On the covers, under the covers, standing up, sitting down, in the shower, in the bath, the kitchen, the basement, the living room floor with the curtains open. Once, twice, and during the film festivals, sometimes five times a day. Just watching him walk, seeing his legs or back or stomach made my heart (and parts somewhat lower) clench and ache. I wanted to touch him all the time. Even doing the dishes together was sexy. The promise of wet hands and soft soapy bubbles…….
Now? Yeah. Now. Not so much. 
Now? It’s been a dry coupla seasons. The closest I get to spending any of the precious time we used to have together is watching him hike a screaming preschooler to her room for a time-out, or seeing him cornered at the kitchen table doing math homework, or when he’s downing a cup of scalding coffee before running the next kid to the next lesson. And film festivals? At best, it’s Finding Nemo with take-out pizza, and 5 twitchy kids. I only catch a glimpse of my still sexy husband as he’s carrying a load of laundry downstairs, or reading a bedtime story, or drying off some little, chubby body, that’s not his own (damn, damn, double-damn! Toweling off was always one of my favorite spectator sports!) 
And as far as sex, were lucky if we get to do the silent, three-minute bump-and-grind once a month. Under the covers. In the dark. And way, way past bedtime. Now, I know what you’re thinking! It’s pretty shocking. I can hardly believe it myself….we’re SILENT! 

Absolutely silent sex. No heaving, heavy breathing. No gasping, panting, swearing, imploring, or grunting. Just tight-lipped silence. In fact, I think we might both hold our breath the entire time (we may not get a lot of exercise, but these monthly trysts are certainly increasing my lung capacity). We bonk in fear that, 1. the kids will hear, and 2. the kids will hear and subsequently wake up and ruin what might be an adequate nights sleep! And as any sane mother knows, sleep before sex, sleep before sex!!
I just wanna throw off the shackles of motherhood (and throw the shackles on my husbands wrists). The damn kids not only took my body, took my time, and took my money, they took my groove thing!!
So, I’m going to employ a tactic I’ve noticed has worked very effectively for my children. When in a particularly sensitive location, like, a parent-teacher interview or the Christmas concert or a birthday party at McDonald’s, for instance, I’m going to have a world-class, eardrum-shattering tantrum:
I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! IT’S JUST NOT FAIR!!!! EVERYBODY AT WORK HAS A GROOVE THING!!! I WANT ONE TOO!!! I WANT MY GROOVE THING BACK!!! I WANT IT BACK!!!! YOU SAID!!!
I’ll let you know how it works for me. And if you happen to find yourself in the same locale as me when I am implementing my plan, please, for my sake, and the sake of all of us, and your future ability to get jiggy with it, join in. Our future sex lives depend upon it!
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