Spending “quality time” with my husband (and by that, I mean ‘having sex’) is no easy feat.
Well, I guess I should rephrase that a little.
Finding the opportunity to spend “quality time” with my husband (and by that, I mean ‘have sex’) – is difficult.
We have a “historical” house (and by that, I mean very freaking old). There is no door on mine and my husbands bedroom. This technically has nothing to do with the house being historical and more to do with the fact that someone who lived here prior to my husband buying the house had crappy remodeling skills. But that’s beside the point.
Okay, so no door on our bedroom, the doors to both the office and our son’s room are slightly “off” and do not close all the way. Ever. No matter how hard you try, these doors simply lack the ability to shut completely. It is annoying.
The bathroom has the only door in the house that actually closes and locks. Thank God for that.
Okay so back to the sex.
My husband and I sometimes resort to extreme measures (and/ or weather conditions) to help facilitate our needs and desires. Some measures more tactical than others. Last night, for example, we stayed up far past our bedtime so we could handle our business after The Cole was passed out cold. This isn’t that extreme to most people, but considering we waited until 2 a.m and we get up at 4 a.m – it was definitely a sacrifice. A sacrifice worth giving, of course – but a sacrifice just the same.
Because both my mother and my mother-in-law read this blog? I’ll skip through the details and give you the basic scenario.
- The “porn chair” was not cooperating with the system we had so carefully laid out. When I rolled it across the hardwood floor into position, I’m pretty sure the neighbors felt the ground move beneath them.
- I may have, by no fault of my own, enjoyed myself a little too much and possibly vocalized this enjoyment in ways some might consider cries of pain or discomfort. This was not the case, of course, but to a 4-year-old – I may as well have been drowning in the ocean, pleading for someone to save me
When I heard the kid say, “Mommy?” outside the door, all tiny and almost afraid, I looked at my husband to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. I sometimes hear Cole yelling “Mommy!” at random times throughout the day or night. I guess it’s normal for Moms to have these audible hallucinations. Either that, or someone told me that to make me feel less crazy. Either way, it happens to me all the time.
My husband was much closer to being clothed than I was, so he handled the initial interview while I gathered my thoughts (and clothes). We needed to know exactly what he heard and/ or saw so we could lie accordingly.
I emerged from the office to find Cole and Daddy down the hall. My husband was trying to get his attention, but Cole wanted little to do with him and was more interested in watching the door intently to make sure I was alright. When I got to him, he hugged me and then took me at arm’s length and gave me the once over to make sure I was in one piece. I don’t think I’ve felt that guilty in quite some time.
We went to the couch to lie down because I thought if I turned on Blues Clues or something that would attract his attention quickly, he might forget about the whole incident. I mean, he’s 4. It was late. It could easily have been a dream, right?
He was up for another hour after we made our fort on the couch. Maybe longer. I couldn’t say for sure because I passed out. But before I did, Cole asked me more than twice what Daddy was doing to me. I told him that Daddy and I were watching a movie on my computer (because Cole and I had done just that not long ago) and that the movie pissed me off, so I was yelling at it. This is totally believable. Cole, however, did not seem convinced.
This morning, I began to worry that maybe he had not only heard, but seen the events that transpired between my husband and I (the sex). I was trying to recall exactly what his view would have been if he were standing outside the door before he announced his presence. I was fairly certain he saw nothing more than his Dad’s butt, if even that, from his stand point. It was probably just my reactions to the specific actions being taken by his father that had alarmed him.
I was allowing some guilt to subside and standing by my “movie pissed me off” story until just a little while ago when Cole came to sit on my lap.
When he grabbed my boob? It got my attention. Not okay. When he grabbed both of them with both hands? I freaked the fuck out. Not in an obvious, crazy way – but in an “ohmyfuckingod – he saw something” kind of way. I calmly removed his hands from my breasts and told him that this was not appropriate, as he well knew. He replied by telling me he knew that they were Daddy’s.
I was pretty sure at that point that he had not only heard us, but probably saw a lot more than I was willing to admit to myself.
But when the kid put one hand around my throat in an attempt to get my attention? I knew I could no longer deny the truth. He had seen something. He had seen too much. And one thing was for sure: this is definitely a father and son conversation. Good luck, Dad!