Coitus Interruptus

Today’s guest post is from the fabulous Nickie over at Typecast. 1972 model, good condition (large scratch on bodywork), one careful owner since 1990. Genuine mileage. Full history available. You can also find her on twitter @nickieohara

 

It’s a wonder I ever had any kids. Actually, scratch that. It’s a wonder I had more than one child. In the beginning we were at it like the proverbial rabbits so it’s no wonder that I got caught after missing one pill. However, as the night feeds, daytime tiredness and general “I remember what happened the last time you fucked my brains out” took over, the actual copulation dwindled down to the times when both of us were awake at the same time and there was nothing on the telly.

When we actually found ourselves in a routine and Rachel was sleeping when it was actually dark, we decided to try for another child. We’d already agreed that we didn’t want too much of an age gap between siblings. After getting pregnant so quickly and unexpectedly the first time, I put my body on red alert and braced myself… for nothing! Six months down the line I still wasn’t with child, even after making so much of an effort.

I took a quick trip to the doctors and demanded that he get me pregnant! When he finally worked out that I didn’t actually want him to shag me on his desk, he looked at me pityingly and explained that I was going through a stressful time in my life (my daughter had Cancer) and this was my body’s way of telling me that it couldn’t cope with much more stress. I think he actually patted my hand at one point too.

I went home and forgot about it all for a few months. The doctor was right. I really did have a lot going on and, looking back, coping with being pregnant probably wouldn’t have been the best timing. However, in February 1993 I felt a bit odd (yes, more than usual) so took another trip to the doctors surgery. He was rather pleased to announce this time that I had got pregnant without his help (!) and explained that our return to family normality was the cause of it all.

The babies grew up and we settled into family life. We got past the night-feeding stage and the interrupted sleep during toilet training, sleep walking and bad dreams. Another routine was in place and we started to enjoy sex for fun again. We did get caught out a few times though:

Kev: Cor, get them knickers off love…

voice wafts in from Bedroom #2

Rachel: Why does Daddy want you to take your knickers off, Mummy? You’ll get cold.

we are in the throes of passion and a small child wanders quietly into our room

Michael: Mummy, why are you giving Daddy a piggy back? Can you give me a piggy back next?

Michael: Daddy, why are you making Mummy shout like that? Does she do any other noises?

Talk about passion killers! We had always talked about a third child but, as you can see, we never really got a chance. Our offspring we just as mental as we were and there was never a moments peace. We must have fitted a bit of hows yer father in at some point as that third child materialised and I’m damn sure that I wasn’t God’s second choice for the new Millennium.

Here is the story of when I become a born-again virgin begins. If I’d have thought that the occasional interruption from a half-sleeping toddler was going to put us off our (vinegar) stroke then I was sorely mistaken. This child slept for two hour stints then stayed awake for record-breaking stretches of eight hours or so. Daytime naps were in the pram, on the way home from the school run so no real chance of a snatched quickie anywhere. We even considered getting a babysitter and reliving our early days of passion down a country lane in the front seat of a car. We spent nights on a rota system, taking it in turns to stay awake with devil child; Disney films on a loop and copious amounts of comfort food.

Over time, found a proper sleep pattern (some eight years later) we found ourselves with adult bedroom time again. But now we are both old, overweight, creaking in places we never knew existed (not the bed springs) and just enjoy a chat and brew in bed at the end of the day. There’s all the faffing around with contact lenses, trips to the loo, bad backs, wondering whether to just get on with a good old rodgering or at whether to at least try and look alluring that it’s all so much hassle. It’s still good when we do get round to it though. Neither of us have lost the knack – it just takes us a bit longer to get there.

 

 

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