Our baby is three months old so we’re back in the sex saddle. We don’t have an actual sex saddle, but I bet sales in sex saddles went up since 50 Shades of Grey came out in theaters this month.
The sex we have now is more sporadic; I have to be ready to throw down at any time that’s convenient. I’ll throw down on the floor of the garage, I don’t care. Just have to dust a few spider webs away with a broom that’s also covered in spider webs. And move some rusty gym weights. Good to go.
We don’t even kick the dogs out of bed to do it anymore. No time. They just sit there, judging us. And it’s weird because our dogs are kind of like our kids, too. Can you imagine if your parents did the same thing? You’re five years old, you run in their room in the middle of the night. “Mom, Dad, I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you guys?” Dad’s like, “Sure, kiddo. But stay down by our feet, I was really about to give it to your mother.”
I can’t help but feeling inadequate during post-baby delivery sex. I can’t back up any dirty talk.
Me: “Aw yeah, girl, can you handle that?”
Her: “Uh, is your dick 7lbs, 12 oz? Cuz if it’s less than that, yeah, I can handle it.”
(Keep in mind, even in the midst of dirty talk, I would never be able to ask a woman if she can handle anything, let alone my ween.)
I can’t handle much of anything on my own. Including this breast pump.
We have a basic sleep routine. The wife goes to sleep around ten every night, and I stay up until about 2am scrolling through Facebook’s News Feed trying to find some post that somehow feels satisfying. Cousin with a pro-gun rant? Yes. Someone inviting me to a comedy show in LA using ALL CAPS? Of course. Three Candy Crush invites in the last five minutes of scrolling? Good God. I don’t have a screening process for Facebook, but if you invite me to play Candy Crush one time, I will delete you. And kill your family. But I’ll do it in a fun way, I’ll drop a palate of Tootsie Rolls on them. #CandyCrush
I’m having a hard time admitting I wanted to buy the new Imagine Dragons CD for myself. I’m barely a man, but even I can’t cop to it. I got it for my wife, and I leave it in the car I drive more often, where she can’t enjoy it. I’m like the very very pussed-down version of the guy that buys a motorcycle for him and his wife to both ride, but I secretly leave the house for Route 66 without her every weekend. Imagine Dragons. I still think it’s a dumb band name. But, I can’t help it. I like catchy, radio friendly tunes sometimes. Next CD? Probably Darius Rucker’s newest country album. Is that last sentence a joke? It is not.
We flew to Chicago on Southwest and the baby didn’t make a peep there or back. Literally the best baby I’ve ever seen on a flight, and it was my kid! My friend Ellie McElvain said if your baby doesn’t make any noise on a plane, you should get a free flight voucher. I’m on board.
Now, we’re house hunting. We’re sick of renting and are maybe looking to buy one. I feel like the only house we could afford in LA would have to be haunted. Like, triple homicide minimum. The realtor’s like, “It’s a single-family human home, but you will be sharing the space with the Rodriguez Brothers, who murdered each other in the living room over a Lakers game. They’re like the ghosts in Casper. But not Casper, the mean ones.”