By Vedavati M. of The Cultural Misfit
We have been together for 15 years and parents for two. We’ve had sex at all times of day and night. Every day of the week. Indoors and outdoors. We’ve played out our fantasies. And indulged our fetishes. And now it feels like it’s the end of the road.
I’d heard about parenthood being the death of sex, but I never subscribed to that notion. Surely this happened to the non-adventurous missionary-position believers. Ha!
Two years into this parenting thing and I would much rather sleep with my toddler than my husband. Here’s why:
1. Sleeping together means just that. It doesn’t mean foreplay. It doesn’t mean groping. It doesn’t mean trying to poke me from behind or sideways or wherever. It means sleeping: the act of closing one’s eyes and entering a state of reduced consciousness. My toddler’s snuggles and cuddles make for wonderful sleep aides. My husband’s lead to at least an extra half hour of wakefulness. Sleep trumps. Every time.
2. My toddler doesn’t wake me up from deep sleep to tell me I’m snoring. My husband, on the other hand, has kicked me, shaken me, yelled himself hoarse in my ear to make sure I am wide awake to hear, “Stop snoring!” before rolling off to his side and starting to snore himself. Snore stoppers, snore strips, sleep apnea self-help courses…nothing has worked. My toddler thinks it’s a beautiful rhythmic beat. I happen to concur. Especially since I can’t hear it.
3. My toddler and I can sprawl wherever we want on the king bed without any risk of broken bones. Even in her sleep, she knows mommy bear won’t roll over on top of her. Even in my sleep I know where her body parts are. We are secure in the knowledge that she is safe. With my husband, all bets are off. He has slept through her gassy wails and shrieks during night terrors. When he kicks in his sleep, it can lead to serious injury (used to be kinky; not anymore). He can’t be trusted to be in the same bed as us. Period.
4. My toddler doesn’t care for the blanket. My husband, on the other hand, is a hoarder. He will pull and pull and pull some more. Tuck the blankets under his toes, sides and chin and not let go. The man has a grip of steel even in his sleep. Why he must sleep in his underpants only when he feels this cold is beyond me. And he insists on not using two blankets because “what’s the fun in that?” Well, granted my sexy lingerie has taken a sabbatical, but I don’t like wearing pullovers and socks to bed, either.
5. Farts. Enough said. My toddler’s farts don’t smell like freshly-cut jasmines, but they sure as hell don’t stink up the entire house. Why would I, now that I have the option, not avoid my husband’s liberal, almost-tangible, decidedly foul farts? Diaper changing and potty training are bad enough during the day. I don’t need poop reminders in the middle of the night.
Breastfeeding on demand night and day has its challenges. Lugging a 27-pounder nightly on my stomach has surely screwed up my back. Consoling a screaming toddler through nightmares doesn’t make for undisturbed sleep, but it sure allows for more sleep than with my cold-footed, sex-starved, fidgety husband.
This post was originally published on Ravishly.
About the Author
Vedavati M., a.k.a. The Cultural Misfit, is a stay-at-home-mom who revels in her various avatars (chef, mentor, friend, playmate, arts and crafts buddy, puppeteer, milk machine, comforter, and more) for her toddler. Her secondary pursuits include writing and exploring new experiences. Somewhere in the mix, she remembers to be a wife. You can follow her travails at The Cultural Misfit, and find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.