Busted

A funny thing happens when you become a parent.

Things change.

A lot.

For instance, you can’t easily get in and out of a convenience store for a cup of coffee.

You can’t shop at Target for under $300.

Swearing is harder.

Your television that used to house Law and Order marathons becomes overrun with Sesame Street, Yo Gabba Gabba and some dude named Jake and his pirates.

Oh, and you can’t Make The Sexy any time, any place anymore.

Before you have kids, getting nekkid with your partner is no problem.  You wanna in the kitchen?  Sure, just move the plates!  You wanna in the bathroom?  Yup, just lemme drop this towel.  You wanna in between Law and Order episodes?  Pause that DVR, baby, Chris Meloni can wait a bit….

You get my point.

Sexy Time before kids?  Easy peasy.

Sexy Time after kids?  PFFT.  Bitch, please.  Your voice is muffled amidst all this laundry. And loud kid shouting.

Now, when the stork brings your bundle, life goes from easy peasy to “OMG I’m never sleeping again in the history of ever” and Sexy Time gets put on the back burner.  Because episiotomies and breast feeding.  Because epic diapers and toddlers who can’t adjust.   And, because, let’s face it:   Sexy Time is what got you into this sleep deprived mess in the first place so you had BETTER stop looking at me like that, Mister…

Buuuuuuut, eventually, like our friend Justin Timberlake says, you attempt to Bring Sexy Back.

Or, at least you try.

With your first bundle of joy, it’s not too bad.  As long as the infant is changed, fed, swaddled, changed again, repositioned, topped off with a little extra nourishment, moved to the swing and changed once more, you can find a little Sexy Time.  And, the nice thing about infants is that if they catch you (read: catch a glimpse from the bassinet), you can be reasonably sure they aren’t gonna squawk at preschool.   You can also rest assured you won’t scar the infant for life when he/she sees the post partum state of your boobs.  Ahem.

Toddlers, on the other hand, are a whole other ball of wax.

Toddlers are mobile.  Toddlers ask questions.  Toddlers TALK at preschool.  Toddlers WILL say something about the state of your midsection and nether regions.  And they won’t blink twice when announcing you have a smiley face on your abdomen post C section.

A toddler in the house guarantees that Sexy Time gets tricky.  Very, very tricky.

So, it’s in everyone’s best interest to NOT get busted by the toddler.

Yeah.

We got busted once.

Because this is a family friendly blog, you can draw your own conclusions here.  We are discussing Sexy Time.  You do the math.  It was late, the toddler had been quiet for hours and we thought we were in the clear.  A double, triple, quadruple check that he was sound asleep, a quick lock of the door and well, you get the point.

We thought we were getting away with Bringing Sexy Back.

Until we weren’t.

Knock, knock.

Two grown adults.  Deer in headlights look.  Neither in a position to immediately answer the door.

Knock, knock, KNOCK.
“Moooooommmy??  Daaaaaadddy?  Whass goin’ on in de-ah?”

Continued deer in headlight faces.  The “Who’s gonna answer the door?” and “I’m sure as hell not gonna answer it” faces.

“Mooooommmy??  You in de-ah?  I hear you…”  Knock, knock, knock.  So much knocking.

“Uh, bud, Daddy will be right there.  What do you need?”

Panic stricken face from Hubby. Continued communication via clenched teeth, squinted eyes and gestures.

“I need the bahf-rroom.  I go potty.  You wipe, a-member?”

“Yep, yep.”

Where the HELL did his underwear go?  How did my bra get over THERE?  Hurry. UP. Commence running around bedroom like nekkid lunatics.

“Why the door locked?”  Wiggle wiggle on the door knob.  More knocking.

Seriously.  We get it.  We know you are there.  STOP WITH THE KNOCKING.

Appropriate clothing donned, door swung open, toddler ushered by Hubby down the hall to “bah-froom”.

Busted.

So very, very, very BUSTED.

As if getting busted wasn’t bad enough, I then heard the following conversation that I’m convinced I will need years of therapy to get over:

FL#1:  “What you guys doin’ in de-ah.  Mommy loud.”
Hubby:  “Uh, I was giving Mommy a back rub”  (Hubby does NOT think fast on his feet)
FL#1:  “You musss give good back rubs, Daddy….Mommy made happy noises.  I hear dem when I at the door”.
Hubby:  “…………….”.
Me:  Face plant into sheets.  Pillow over the head.  Pray for large hole to swallow me.  Also pray preschool teacher does not judge.

B.U.S.T.E.D.  In all caps.  With a capital B.

All I can say is this:  his preschool teacher got a very, very nice gift that year.  And I could never look her in the eye again.

And suffice it to say, back rubs became very quiet affair in this house.  VE-RY QUIET.

Because toddlers TALK.

Maybe JT needs to write a song about THAT…..

 

 

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