Snippety Snip

Firstly, I'd like to express my sincere apologies in advance to Mr D for what is likely to cause him great embarrassment and humiliation.*

Next month, Mr D is getting the snip.

Now that our offspring (aged 2 and 4) have reached an age where life can resume (almost) normal service, after a not-so-lengthy discussion it has been agreed that there will be no more babies. (Except maybe a dog if Mr D, the evil animal hater, will ever agree.)  The snip was scheduled to take place on Valentine's Day but, to Mr D's relief, he was given a stay of execution. 'It's the perfect Valentine's gift', proclaimed Mr D via text, 'I hope you'll get me something equally special'.  (Erm, the big massive present must have gotten lost in the post dearest.)

To snip or not to snip, is a controversial question.

'I'm refusing to get one,' said my cousin A. His fabulously feisty missus piped up 'I've had two kids, 8 miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy and you won't get the bloody snip.'  'But what if you die and I want to have kids with somebody else?' was A's reply. If that's not worth a slap in the face, what is?

My friend's partner G agrees. 'I'm 45 and fertile, what if I decide to spread my seed elsewhere?' he said. While my dad queried, 'Why don't you get your tubes tied instead?' 

According to the Marie Stopes International vasectomy information website, guys who get the snip are heroes. 'This is Darren' it says next to a photo of smug looking sterile bloke. 'Darren had a vasectomy and was back at work two days later. He was awake and laughing during the 15 minute procedure which was performed entirely under a local anaesthetic. His wife also thinks he is a hero and they love that sex is now spontaneous, without having to worry about contraception.'

In a video where Darren talks about his vasectomy experience he quips; 'after about a week or so we got back into sex.  Obviously I took it pretty easy but my wife wanted to, you know, 'look after' me for getting it done.'  High five Dazza! You're a bloody legend mate.

Ahem, excuse me Dr Marie Stopes, but where was the medal presentation ceremony and ticker tape parade when I was taking responsibility for contraception for the past 20 odd years? Who was calling me a hero when I endured two pregnancies, one drug-free labour (with serious fanny ripping injuries), a c-section and a hefty dose of post-natal depression? Nope, nobody.  And nor was Mr D writing me an IOU for a session of cunnilingus as a reward for birthing our children.

By fault of evolution, it's women's bodies who bear the brunt of baby making.  After the male of the species has deposited his seed in a minute moment of orgasmic ecstasy, from then on for us women it's months and years of physical and emotional upheaval.  Nausea, headaches, weight gain, stretch marks, sleep deprivation, anxiety, guilt, no booze, pain, saggy boobs, vaginal examinations, stitches, hemorrhoids, catheters, injections, cracked nipples, mastitis, exhaustion and loss of freedom to name but a few.

Having children is mostly a wonderfully joyous experience but it's a life changing one where the women's bodies, brains and career's suffer most. A little nip to the nether regions is the least a guy can do. Undertaking a minor surgical procedure in order to make your contribution to 'family planning' is not a heroic deed.  It's a responsible and considerate one. 

I'm very grateful to Mr D for agreeing to the snip.  I won't be throwing him a ticker tape parade or award him a blow job for his bravery, but I will fetch him some frozen peas.  It's the least a girl can do.

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*I would also like to apologise to those who were upset and disturbed by the mental image of my unkempt lady garden in my 'No Sex Please' post. At least it's nice and warm down there with it's own mohair blanket and all.

No sex please... we're married (with children).

Once upon a time my idea of a good time in bed was not a blissfully uninterrupted night's sleep. And 'morning glory' used to be far more exciting than the triumph of drinking a cup of tea in bed without sustaining third-degree burns, while a small child uses my belly as a trampoline.

Sex.  It's a conversation topic beloved amongst my comrades on the front line of domestic duty. Or lack of it to be more precise.  Once horn-bags, this skulk of foxy ladies now moan about their partner's persistent pestering and wonder, when did we fall out with fornication?

According to the Durex 2001 Global Sexual Wellbeing Survey, married couples have sex 98 times per year. Which means they're doing it almost twice a week. If my local sex survey is anything to go by, those results are seriously flawed.  The Durex research also revealed that 10% of people would rather go shopping than have sex.  My (unqualified and unverified) study indicates that 98.75% of ladies would rather shop than shag.  And certainly nobody is doing it twice a week.

Amongst my lady friends polled, nookie numbers varied.  A few have co-ordinated coitus into a scheduled weekly 'sex night' while for others, love making has dwindled to a monthly or even bi-annual event. One couple I know have been out of action for so long they have been officially re-virginised. Unless bonking for baby-making purposes, nearly all of those surveyed require copious quantities of wine and a holiday (preferably somewhere warm and without the kids) to get their juices flowing.  So where did we mislay the mojo? And who took the panky out of hanky panky rendering it merely a nose wiping device?

The reasons given for the decline in desire were fairly obvious and universal.  Everyone complained that mostly they were just too knackered for nooky.  'By the time I get the kids to bed, I've got about enough energy to knock back a glass of wine and crawl into bed' said F.  Many moaned their loss of libido was influenced by their partner's lack of contribution on the domestic front.  'My husband does bugger all around the house' said K. 'Picking his undies up off the floor does not get me in the mood.' Others just don't feel very sexy any more, our bodies broadened and lady bits battered by babies. 'My boobs hang like a pair of deflated footballs and I haven't waxed my bikini line in so long it looks like I've got a mohair rug on my lap' moaned N.*

Sex makes babies.  Therefore isn't it ironic (but not in the Alanis Morrissette sense) that kids, the product and embodiment of a couple's love, often become the threat to the very relationship that brought that child into existence, not to mention screw up our sex life.  We seem to fall madly and passionately into an all-consuming love affair with our babies and push almost everything else, especially our partners, aside.

My dad, who is a source of great pearls of marital advice such as 'make sure you look after your husband (nudge nudge, wink, wink)', thoughtfully gifted me a book entitled 'Mating in Captivity'.  Author Esther Perel, a psychotherapist who specialises in something called 'erotic intelligence', delves deep into the psychology of long-term couplings and how to put the 'x back into sex'.  Interestingly, Perel says that scheduling sex is the way to go and wants to debunk the myth of spontaneity. 'I urge my patients not to be spontaneous about sex,' she writes. 'Committed sex is intentional sex.'  My friend S, a vocal advocate of the scheduled sex night, agrees.  'If you don't do it regularly, men will start looking for it elsewhere,' she warns.

And according to some, presumably very sexually satisfied, people called Sheri and Bob Stritof,  the old adage of 'just do it' is backed up by scientific evidence that frequent sex provides countless health benefits including:

• Improves posture.
• Boosts self esteem.
• Firms tummy and buttocks.
• Offers pain-relief.
• Reduces risk of heart disease.
• Improves fitness.
• Reduces irritability.
• Reduces depression.
• Improves sense of smell.
• Boosts the immune system.
• Improves bladder control.
• Relieves menstrual cramps.
• Improves sleep.
• Improves digestion.
• Improves memory.

If there were a pill that made claim to all these miraculous health benefits, we'd pay big bucks for it and we'd take it daily.  So ladies, in the interests of good health or at the very least, improved bladder control, why don't we up our annual averages and book in a bonking day?

How about Wednesdays Mr D?

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*N is me.

Validate my self worth. Like me at the Happily Ever After Facebook page.

Guilt

 

The other night I was snuggled on the sofa reading my kids a bedtime story, glass of wine in hand and the TV on in the background when the 'Drink Aware' ad came on.  You know, the one which implies that you should never consume alcoholic beverages in front of your children or else they will most likely become smelly toothless winos and live under a bridge swilling home brand gin from a paper bag?  I took a sip of my wine, gazed at the angelic faces of my babies and thought 'Oh my God, they watch too much TV.'

Guilt. From the moment my children were conceived I was wracked with it. It was as if along with the embryonic offspring in my belly, grew my own personal courtroom in my mind, complete with its own tiny little judge and jury.  The judge was tough with countless verdicts of guilt handed down each day.  I was shit-faced the night before I found out I was pregnant with Ollie. GUILTY. I breastfed Daisy for 15 months and Ollie for only six. GUILTY. I haven't read them enough stories today. GUILTY. I've let them eat biscuits, an icy pole, a choccy frog and watch 47 hours of TV. GUILTY. I've fed them sausages three nights in a row. GUILTY. And so, the list of convictions reads on.

Guilt is a beastly burden, laden upon the weary shoulders of motherhood. I regularly hear my friends mutter self-deprecating statements such as 'I won't be winning Mother of the Year today' because of some perceived injustice they have committed against their offspring. Are we giving our children enough attention?  Should we be taking them to kiddie yoga, Italian culture appreciation classes, tap and modern dance?  Should we have gone back to work? Is controlled crying going to fuck them up for life?  Should we have had that third Tim Tam? 

When a child is born, so is a superwoman.  This superwoman is expected to be a Olympic-level juggler with countless balls and flaming sticks magically twisting and twirling through the air in harmoniously co-ordinated order.  (In my case the balls, flaming sticks and me spent most of the early months of my children's lives crumpled in a messy heap on the floor.*)  We want be the bestest, most loving, nurturing, stylish, cleverest, reasonable income earning, witty, gourmet uber-mum in the history of the world.  When we don't think we meet those sky scraper expectations, there follows our old friend- guilt.

I am no good Catholic girl but you, my darling 29 regular readers, are the dog-collared confidants in my own virtual confession box of the blogsphere. 

Forgive me people for I confess...

• I have forgotten to pay for the squeezy yogurt I gave the kids to shut them up while we did the supermarket shopping on at least three occasions.
• I let Daisy watch TV while I have a nana nap on the couch most afternoons.
• I have drunk wine straight from the bottle in the middle of a particularly challenging day.
• I regularly forget to brush my kid's teeth.
• I sometimes use the dryer on nice days because I can't be arsed hanging the washing out.
• I slightly favour one child over the other.
• I shout too much.
• I swear in front of the children.
• I'm no good at saying no.

So nobody died or lost an eye. I haven't committed murder, or stolen anything of significance especially since a generous slice of our income is donated directly to Mr Safeway which surely provides sufficient karmic compensation for the clandestine yogurts. But what's with all the guilt?

Perhaps it's time to evict that little judge and jury from the courtroom in my mind for-

I AM INNOCENT! 

(But now I am feeling slightly guilty for ignoring the kids for the past two hours while I wrote this. Bugger.)

*This crumpled messy heap is also known as Post-Natal Depression.  More on that another day.