But, Really, Who Even Has A Good Sex Life?

This, by the way, is probably going to be the title to my first book. And when I tour with it, all the women in the room are going to be like, "YEP" and all the men in the room...who dropped the women off, I guess?....are going to be whimpering in the back, holding their poor sacks in their tired hands.

I meant they brought a bag lunch and their hands are tired because they folded laundry all morning. What were you thinking? It's going to be a long reading and Q & A, they'll need snacks!

Anyway.

I'm forever trying to figure out why I'm not much interested in sex since having kids. I feel bad and sad and weird and guilty about it, so I ponder it a lot. Here's what I've come up with.

Some of it is the relationship ups and downs, the lack of romance and connection and just general functionality of life leaves no room for something as frivolous and time-consuming as sex.

Some of it might be the normal process of aging, hormonal changes, or effects of birth control.

And some of it is that I feel like I've given up enough of my body and I don't want to give it up anymore. Just leave me alone.

Let me clarify.

We watched some friends' baby this weekend and he's teeny tiny and still needs to be fed milk every few hours, so we happily woke up with him a few times overnight to feed him bottles and whisper back and forth over his little head about how amazingly cute he is and how isn't this kind of fun to have a baby in the house again but haha not THAT fun.

And then I really thought about how viciously much I do not miss it. How resentful I am over the sacrifice my body made to take care of my babies. How, between pregnancy and breastfeeding, I don't feel like anything else should be asked of my boobs or vagina. Leave them alone.

Watching Robb give a baby a bottle didn't elicit fond nostalgia, because he almost never did that when our kids were babies. I was one of those competitive marathon moms who thought I needed to breastfeed my kids for a full year without any help, while working full time. So,  I was breastfeeding or pumping approximately every 4 hours for 14 months, twice over. That's approximately 5,000 times. At, let's say, 20 mins per feeding or pumping session, that's approximately 1700 hours, or 70 days of having a baby or a machine attached to my breast. (If I failed to do the math right, we'll assume that brain decay is also a consequence of the sacrifice). That was after I bled out 2 miscarriages and carried 2 babies to term and delivered them painfully out my lady hole, and in addition to all the other parenting stuff that happens to your body- getting stepped on, carrying screaming 40 lb people through grocery stores, etc.

My body is tired and sore and kind of cranky. No, it does not want genital stimulation and no it REALLY does not want to stimulate anyone else's, even for the sake of harmony or world peace or whatever.

The other thing, that I say in a more timid, embarrassed, holy whisper, is that my body was sexually available for others' needs before I was enlightened enough to use it for my own purposes. When I was in my early teens (thank God not earlier), my sexual awakening was basically when boys took interest in me and had expectations of sexual acts we would perform on each other. My body, which I had always had a negative opinion of, suddenly was desirable for males. They liked what it could do for them. My body didn't get much out of these encounters for many years, but my heart felt temporarily less alone and more worthy. The conclusion that my body wasn't entirely mine, but was somehow owed to the men who were interested in it, in trade for the bump in self esteem their interest gave me, was easily reinforced by movies and TV and what I knew about porn.

It took me years of fighting through embarrassment and fear, and a very patient, loving partner, to figure out what my body wanted and how to get it that. To speak for it and let it have its own goals that were independent of anyone else's needs.

So then there were a few blissful years of a healthy, dedicated, exciting relationship with a healthy, dedicated, exciting sex life.

And then we had kids. And my body was again on loan to other people. And I LOVED them and was glad to make that sacrifice...but it was hard. It was really, really hard. And I LOVE my husband, but neither of us want sex to feel like a sacrifice to me and it does. It just does. So I don't do it.

Having and raising kids, and growing up, and finding a stronger version of me through therapy and friendship and all these things over the past few years has given me an actual, real self esteem. I am my own authority and I just don't want to compromise that. Especially for something that I have compromised before.

I know better now. I feel bad for that teenage girl who thought she had to put out sexually to feel love. She was really funny and weird and wise and kind of good at theater and sports and friendship and being a sister and a daughter and she didn't need boys slobbering on her to be worthy. She didn't know.

I hope figuring this stuff out for myself now will help me help my kids through adolescence better. I'm practicing saying it all honestly here so I can say it honestly there, then.  Also, I'm sharing it because I wonder if anyone in couples out there is feeling "YEP" or whimpering about the same? You're not alone, if you are.

I'm hoping to find my way back to the healthy part where I feel ownership over my body again and excitement for sexy time with my mate. As the kids grow less dependent on me, that helps. As I practice using my big girl words to express anxieties over these things, that creates intimacy, and that helps. Shared time and experiences together just the two of us feels like romance, those dates help.

Anyway, I'm not quite ready to close up shop permanently just yet. The sign out front used to say "Going Out of Business Sale, Everything Gone. Just Go Away."

Now it says "Closed For Business, But The Power Is Still On. You Can Hold My Hand And See What Happens."

Yelp Review for "Cool" New Restaurant, By Child

1 out of 5 stars because it wouldn't let me choose none stars. 

We ate at this new restaurant, called something like JusteatitIsweartoGodYou'llLikeIt. My mom was freaking out about this place for one million years. She kept calling it the "hottest new restaurant in town," which I didn't understand because it was neither spicy hot nor hot hot temperature hot. She called it ironic when she finally got in but didn't have a babysitter for me, but I don't think she knows the real meaning of that word since she was raised in the 90s.

We still had to wait. But there are no couches or chairs, you have to stand at the bar. People were kind of rude. They kept glaring at me like I shouldn't have been there. My mom glared at me like that, too. My guess is it's because I didn't have enough fancy hair on my face. There seemed to be a hair dress code.

I guess they don't do carry-out here, because they don't have to and they hate me.

When we fiiiiiinally got to sit down and went over the menu, all of their non-alcoholic drinks were cold-press coffee and Kombucha, so basically they wanted me to get high or drunk on deadly vinegar poison. Then, the curtain near our table was this really soft, billowy muslin material and obviously I had to touch it. Had to touch it. Had to touch it. The food on the menu all sounded like poop and poop sandwiches and they actually did not have french fries on the menu and my failure of a mom also did not have any in her purse. You would cry, too.

What they did have, though, was plenty of pork belly and candied pistachio goat cheese honey things. I couldn't picture it. HOW DOES THE PIG LIVE WITHOUT ITS BELLY? How does it? No one would answer me. I kept trying. I asked every person within and without ear shot, but they were not hearing me over the music.

The music.

What.

It was really loud and confusing. My mom was drinking something with mulberry jam and jalapeños in it, and I know she didn't like it because I really know what her "doesn't like it" face looks like, but she drank every bit of it because it cost $14 and stop asking her about it right now. I tried to take her mind off it and told her I CAN COUNT TO 1000. So that pretty much took us through dinner.

Which was a disaster.

They put truffle oil on everything. Truffle oil tastes like what the dirt under rocks tastes like...I've heard.  And it was on EVERYTHING. Like, I imagine that's what they put in the soap machines in the bathroom there. Although I wouldn't know because I don't like to wash my hands when I go to the bathroom. Unless I go #2, but I didn't there, so that was OK.

The dessert was fine, though. They had different flavored cotton candy and rock candy and deep fried candy bars. I liked all those a lot.

It's 4 days later and I still haven't slept. And still no one has answered my pig question.

The end.

We Hurt Each Other Because We Hurt Ourselves and That Sucks

you If we cured anxiety and depression, wouldn't we cure war and cruelty? Or, in other words, if we were healed and whole and our worries tended to and our tender parts loved on, wouldn't we not want to hurt ourselves or each other?

I'm not saying that flippantly, and, although I always suspect that I am naive because of my privilege, I mean it. As best I can tell, love and tenderness is the solution.

My most rotten behavior comes from a source of pain and insecurity. I have to believe that's true for most everyone? Even enormously powerful political people? Wink wink trying to find some mercy here wink wink? Even guerrilla religious fighters who light children on fire to prove their authority? 

Maybe? Can there be this many sociopaths who found each other and formed political parties/cults? Or is it just fear collected, reincarnated as dangerous power and violence?

We're afraid we're secretly not worthy, we're afraid we're secretly bad, so we show our teeth and puff up our chests and strike hard. We ruin others to prove we're getting something right.

It's fucked up.

In my experience as a social worker and medical provider and person, when I've engaged with 'difficult people' in a rage or a huff or who are spinning out of control, there's usually a source of fear at the center of it. When I'm able to find that, and hold it kind of gently with them, and then slowly, carefully, start to step with them down a simple path, one small solution at a time, they can start to breathe and simmer the rage. It can stop their anger or ill intentions in their tracks.

Why are you yelling? What are you afraid of?
Why did you hit me? What is worrying you? 
Why are you cold and mean? Why do you feel alone?
Why do you hate people? Who hurt you?
Why are you trying to overpower and own? Who told you you weren't good enough?

We can keep passing on the hurt, fist-over-fist, from one generation to the next, or we can somehow get to the core of it and save each other.

I think.

I'm trying to keep my head down but heart up. I'm hiding a little bit. Avoiding the news. Avoiding the hard stuff. Avoiding the crushing realities of the powerful people who are mad at the rest of us for not being one of them. I'm afraid that there's no Batman to save us. I'm afraid that there's no God.

There's a whole hella of a lot of "why?" going on. Why? Why? Why?

All I ever seem to conclude about people is we need to find each other's hurt and validate it and try to love them through it.

So, I think we're trying. I'm seeing people rush to help others a little more right now. I think the result of us all being terrified that we can't fix the big injustices and hurts is that we're trying to relieve some of the little ones. People are donating funds, time, showing more kindness to people on the streets, maybe. The Midwest lost power and friends and neighbors and even grocery stores are offering to take cold foods, to shelter people.

Human efforts seem bolder, hastier, less hesitant than business as usual.

I guess that's what we can do. LOVE HARDER. REACH DEEPER. FORGIVE AND LOVE YOURSELF, it might save others.

That's all I got.

What's Love (and LOVE) Got to Do With It?

My 5 year-old son has a male best friend he talks about constantly. They cause mischief, they have their own secret language. They send notes home with each other. They adore each other. My 3 year-old daughter has a female best friend she talks about constantly. She includes her in stories she makes up, she names her dolls after her. She seeks her out the very second she arrives at daycare and then sticks to her like glue all day, according to the teachers.

The kids both use the term "best friends" to describe their people. All us grown-ups go, "That's great! You're fitting in. You have friend(s)!"

But I've been thinking....if my kids had opposite-sex favorite people, would us grown-ups (and then, in time, the kids) describe those relationships differently? What if my son had a female best friend or my daughter had a male best friend? Would we still say, "Yay! Friends!" or would be weirdly romanticize/sexualize these pint-size, pre-pubescent relationships? Would we refer to them as their "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" and talk about how one day they might get married? Or would we discourage the opposite-sex friendships since 'boys should play with boys doing boy things' and 'girls should play with girls doing girls things?'

If we did that, would it change the way they look at those relationships? Would it effect the way they look at themselves, even? Would it shape their expectations? Could it jack up their relationships for the rest of their lives? Could it put unnecessary divisions or distance between themselves and other parts of themselves, or others? Is that our adult/societal subconscious goal?

AND, isn't it possible that my daughter, with her total infatuation with this little girl at her daycare has some early loving feelings for her? Or my son for his friend?  If the potential for romantic loving feelings starts early in life, are we witnessing it now in these relationships but just are using heteronormative language to describe them?

It's just a ponder. I wouldn't be surprise if you're crying total bullshit on me right now. I mean, the idea of my kids as romantic beings is eww gross. They're under 4' tall and still don't wipe their asses very well.

I'm not going to sexualize/romanticize any of my kids' relationships with either sex until they tell me what's up, later in life. I want them to be naive, sweet kids without the flutters of the heart and the straining of the groin for as long as possible. But I'm aware that their sexuality is never not developing, just as their emotional selves and intellectual selves and physical selves...whether I'm squeamish with it or not, it's happening. And the things I say and do now might have later impact in what they see as normal and acceptable and valuable.

So with all of their same-sex or opposite-sex friends, I'm going to try hard to let them describe and define the relationships and not put words or labels in their mouths or ideas in their minds.

Partly my goal is that they grow to expect respectful, loving relationships out of any friendship they make, with either sex and can be themselves in those friendships. Maybe they can see that men and women have way more alikes than differences? Maybe my kids can be of the first generation in the history of humans to have healthy opposite-sex friendships? If that's even a thing? (Harry Burns would say no)

Mostly my goal is that they can peacefully (as peaceful as navigating relationships and human sexuality can be) figure out who they are and how they love and what makes sense to them without my/society's expectations filtering through them too much.

So...you're 5, kid. You have to sit at your desk and not talk when the teacher is talking, but you don't have to have a girlfriend or boyfriend now. You're 3, kid. You have to sit on the carpet when told and not eat too much Play-Doh, you don't have to be thinking about who you're going to marry right now.

And forgive any adult who tells you otherwise. Negotiate your way through friendships, expect honor and love from them all. Day by day, as you get older, listen to the flutter in your heart and you'll figure out what love means for you. I'm hear to listen to what you learn about yourself.

And when you ask me about how babies are made, I'm going to give you way too much clinical information and pull out all my colorful diagrams and to-scale models, so make sure you're in a comfortable chair.

Hear Our Rally Call- Aaaaaayeeeeeeeeaaaaaay

Last week I went to a conference at a spa in the desert. Some girlfriends joined me for some much-needed R & R. In this case, that stood for Rum & Rally. 

Rally: feisty verb, means; to call together for a common purpose, to assemble. To rouse or revive. To reassemble and restore to order. 

These women. Dang, these women. They look like adorable Lululemon models (is that how the hell you spell that store? It's very brainfusing to me). One of them is going through a divorce from her fuckwad husband and finding her BIG ROAR, one survived brain surgery and is parenting 3 tiny children (nbd), and one is the sunshine hero for kids who have walked through the worst kind of hell.

We rallied to revive and restore order to ourselves, with each other's help.

We rallied. And it was good. My friend experiencing the divorce is fighting her way through it, head above the water, warrior shield gleaming, but as importantly, she's reaching out for help. She doesn't want to just not drown alone, she wants fellow swimmers. She doesn't want to have to create all her own armor in isolation, she wants craftsmen who can help her build and reinforce it and then remind her to pick it back up in those moments when it's hard to carry.

She sounded the horn so her tribe could gather, and I'm so impressed. I don't do that enough and I'm learning lessons from her. When I've had trauma with loss and hurt, I've withdrawn into myself and found a whole lot of unhelpful sad there. Humans are meant to live in community, especially women, I think. We need to force the Red Tent notion (1997 novel written by Anita Diamant about some of the big names in the old testament sharing "lady time" every month away from the rest of the tribe) because we live in our own private family pods of isolation now a days and don't have access to our women for support and education, like we once did.

BTW- no one sat on straw and menstruated during this sojourn. We sat in saunas and eucalyptus-scented spa rooms and didn't menstruate. I don't think. I'm pretty sure, but I guess I don't really know. Stop saying menstruate, Sarah. Anyway, it was crazy posh. There was a warm indoors waterfall. We felt like Oprah. Who doesn't menstruate, cuz she's, like 60. STOP SAYING MENSTRUATE. But I think we had similar conversations to the ancient women. We talked how to best raise our kids, manage our relationships, monitor our health, what exactly they might serve at the Mexican Sushi place nearby where it's so hard to get a reservation....

It was beautifully healing and empowering to be with these women. I'm so glad we rallied and so hopeful for the path our warrior is blazing through the pain. What a privilege it is to see how these women fiercely fight the obstacles that try to stop their progress or tarnish their dignity, and miraculous to see how they retain their grace and tenderness. I'm inspired and emboldened by how they're doing life.

(You're probably wondering. Yes, I am a good friend, so, of course, when my friend experiencing divorce first told us about it, I offered to have her ex killed. Obviously. She has respectfully declined all my assassination offers even though I keep telling her how discrete I am. So discrete, in fact, I just talked about it in a public post on the internet. But how funny would this paragraph sound read stiffly aloud in court by a prosecuting attorney and then read back by the court reporter while everybody in the room stared at me? Come on!)

So, we assembled and helped each other restore order, or make a new order within ourselves. We roused and revived. We drank rum banana drinks. We never found out whether Mexican Sushi means you're now allowed to put corn tortillas around guacamole and spicy tuna, but boy we hope so.  It'll just have to live in our dreams until we rally again.