Dear Husband,
I love you. I really do. More than I did on the day we married. But I don’t want to have sex with you. Ouch. That hurts me to say out loud probably more than it hurts you to hear it. I wish I wanted to have sex. But I don’t.
We used to have a killer sex life. Stuff of the romance novels. Several times a …ahem… well, a lot. And a helluva lot more than we do now. We disagree on the length of time between encounters now. I say it’s not more than two weeks, you are referencing months. Either way – it’s a lot less than we used to back in our new love days.
But now the only thing new in our household are the kids. These tiny little humans our sex created are the most miraculous things I’ve ever seen. But they come at a high cost. They’ve wrecked my body, our sleep, and our sex life. They’re my entire world and they have drained every ounce of energy and sexiness I could possibly possess.
My body is no longer my own. It is consumed – literally and figuratively – by motherhood. Tiny hands probe and touch me all day long that the last thing I want at the end of the day is another hand near me. Even if that belongs to the hand I took in marriage not that long ago.
I do not feel hot or sexy or even desirable. There’s mush where there’s never been, there’s jiggle that feels wrong, there’s tightness in places that will not serve any good. I don’t even recognize myself.
The hormones that surged and sheltered and grew life, that purged that life from my body and now flood to sustain that life are too busy and too turbulent for anything else. I could join a convent tomorrow and my body would not miss sex.
My attention is robbed at every conscious – and unconscious – moment. I listen for their cries, their voices, their needs. Even in my sleep I wait for their whimpers. Their requests, their wants. A never-ending list rolls through my mind of the what-nexts, what-ifs, and what-abouts. There is no longer room in my brain for a wandering thought of titillating thrills.
You’re hot. Really hot. When I get a chance to look at you, I notice that I am still attracted to you. But I can’t remember the last time I actually got to look at you. Remember those dinners where we gazed across the table at one another? Now I can go all day and not remember if I saw you for more than a passing glance.
Remember how we used to talk? About life and politics and philosophy. We made plans and went places. Now the only conversation we have centers around the kids. Sometimes we find time to vent about our jobs. But most of our sentences are interrupted by a child. Where were we? What was I saying? Did you get some more milk? Where is the diaper cream? What are we having for dinner? Is the baby feverish?
I miss you. I miss us. And we’re in the middle of experiencing one of the pains of our male/female bond. A woman needs to feel connected to have sex. A man needs to have sex to feel connected. The less sex we have, the less connected you feel. The less connected we feel, the less sex I want to have. It’s a horrible cycle. The only cure is to not take it personally. But oh how personal sex and marriage is…
But this is only a season. A drought, yes, but not a desert. The rain will come. If you’ll only hang in there with me. Erm…. Well, near me. Please don’t touch me. Not yet. We will get through this and then we have the rest of our lives together to break the bed. And the couch. And the kitchen counter. We will get there again some day. Some day. One of these days. Like the sleepless newborn phase where we bleary eyed told each other “this won’t last forever” I know this dry spell will not last forever. Longer than we want maybe, but not forever.
Sincerely,
Your too-tired-for-sex wife