Sex and the Suburbs: It starts in the Kitchen

Dad, I’m really glad you said my blog was way too “girly” for you.  Good.  Because you definitely won't want to read today’s.  Even though I’ve had 3 children, in your eyes I’m still the 8-year-old girl who wanted to marry her daddy, so let’s just keep it that way!

So, what’s on my mind today that I just had to share with you?  Sex.  (There; I said it!)  Mostly because it’s not on my mind enough.  I feel bad for my husband.  He married a girl who wore sexy lingerie, and over time, favored flannel jammies and preferred cozying up in front of The Daily Show to passionate evenings. 

Hubby, on the other hand, never changed in this area.  He’s still every bit as interested today as he was on our honeymoon.  I know I should be grateful for his attention… but I just can’t keep up with him.  (Pun intended.)

Back in the day when we were DINKS (duel-income-no-kids), it seemed I had plenty of energy for - and interest in - sex.  My husband’s mind, body and soul was still terrain I just had to explore, and we spent lazy Saturday mornings tangled up together until one of us finally felt compelled to get up and at least make coffee. 

Now, 17 years and 3 lively kids later - well, we’re just arguing over who should get up and make the coffee on Saturday mornings.

Not that I don’t find my husband attractive.  I still do… but the trouble is, by the time I’ve ended a whirlwind day of wrangling and chauffeuring kids, cleaning, working, cooking, managing homework hour, volunteering and walking the dogs… well, I’m just exhausted.  When I finally put the kiddos to bed, I just want my comfy jammies, a glass of wine, and 60 minutes where no one aks me for one single thing. 

Which is typically when my husband gives me the look.  You know the one....

And I really hate to say this… but sometimes sex just feels like one more chore for me to do at that point.  (Sorry, baby.  No offense.)  I know I should prioritize my husband’s needs, but I need some help.  So I’m interested in hearing what you have to say about it.  Got any suggestions?  If so, my husband will praise your name and probably cook an amazing dinner for you.  

Some of my girlfriends say great sex starts in the kitchen, but not in the way you’re thinking.  Many of us seasoned wives seem to find our men doing housework a real turn-on.  This is because when we’re relieved of just some of the mind-numbing drudgery that comes with homemaking, we can take one more step toward relaxing.  And for me at least, the key to being ready for sex is a successful move from “mommy” mode to “lover” mode.  It's no small task to unwind a whirling dervish.

My husband absolutely hates to unload the dishwasher, but when he does, well, my affection for him skyrockets.  He’s doing it for me and me only, and I love him for that.

I also think an evening headed toward sex starts in the kitchen because I’ve heard it said if you want to make love with your wife in the evening, you need to start in the morning.  In other words, the smart husband pours his wife some coffee before he leaves for work, takes a moment to massage her neck, unloads the dishwasher or tells her she’s beautiful.  Yep; it means making extra efforts.  But think of the payoff!

Of course it’s hard for my husband to get this, because he’s ready for sex anytime, anywhere, under any circumstance.  Doesn’t matter if he’s been beaten up by customers all day, the kids are screaming bloody murder or if we’ve just had a huge fight.  He’s able to compartmentalize his life and drop everything (again, the puns) if I agree to run upstairs.  I admire this about him; and I can learn from it. 

Still, he has to learn that I’m not ready unless all stars are in alignment… I need to feel emotionally close, relaxed, and appreciated.  It might make me a high maintenance woman, but then, he’s high maintenance in his own ways, too.  (And that will have to wait for another blog post, if said husband is still speaking to me after I’ve laid us bare here.)

Then of course, there’s the kids.  Their very presence means most parents have to get creative in finding time and space and energy for love-making.   I’d love to hear your feedback on this one, because the truth is, both hubby and I agree one of the best things we can do for our children is to remain happily married.  And sex is an essential ingredient to that end.  Our kids are old enough to entertain themselves a bit while we escape for an afternoon “nap,” but it doesn’t always stop them from knocking on the door. 

Our solution has been to be open with them.  It’s how they got here in the first place!  We tell our kids we need private time, and to stay away from the door unless there’s an emergency.  (And running out of goldfish does not constitute and emergency.) And if you have little kids, I say, adjust your expectations and take every advantage of their naptime.  The dishes can wait.  Especially if your husband is willing to do them afterward!

I won’t say I don’t have to work hard to stay focused and not jump at every sound they make.  But when I make the effort, I think it endears him to me.  And I always feel better, because after 17 years, hubby keeps honing his prowess.

Then, my very hot man is ready to unload that dishwasher.  And, I think, we might just make it after all.

Got some tips for me?  Leave a comment and share!  How do you keep the home fires burning when the  flames flicker?

Girlfriends are a Girl's Best Friend

Mail.  Real, live, stamped, slightly crushed - mail.  YES!

Tucked inside scores of bills, catalogs and the junk... SCORE!  A thick, buttery soft envelope, the color of mocha.  It was from Julie.  And I knew my day was about to improve.

I'm still the same girl that bounds to the mailbox in anticipation - although my steps today were slow, heavy ones.  I adore snail mail, always have... and Julie knows it.  I willed my children not to discover my absence for just 2 more minutes, and tore into the delicious envelope.   My simmering tears, in search of their muse, sprang up.   Inside the card was a faded newspaper clipping, carefully cut and showcased against floral stationary.

Because that's just how Julie rolls.

I smiled at the faded picture.  It was one of Erma Bombeck's columns.  Do you remember, At Wit's End?  She's my hero - and Julie knows that, too.

She knows it because Julie's a true-blue friend, the kind that knows your Starbucks order and your labor stories by heart.  She listens; she pays attention, she springs into action at precisely the right moments.  Like the time I was summoned from Preschool to pick up my wee one with a head full of lice.

I was freaked out, of course... a scarlet "L" emblazened on my mommy rap sheet.
It had been a brutal morning, complete with a walk of shame to the pharmacy, a box of RID and a sheepish preschooler in tow.  When she heard my plight, Julie dropped off lunch, a bottle of chardonnay, and a card (of course!) at my doorstep.

She ditched everything she had going at that moment because she knew my "baby" would be hungry after her sweet little lice-infested scalp had been scoured with an iron comb.  She knew I'd need a drink by the time 5 p.m. rolled around - OK, maybe 4 p.m. - and mostly, she knew I needed to laugh.  Good friends call and empathize.  Girlfriends bring wine and insist you don't interrupt nit-picking to answer the door.

Back to the card.  Let's just say it's been a tough week.  Of course Julie knew that, and so she took the time from her own crazy life and scored some vintage Erma Bombeck for me.  Who does that?   Girlfriends do that.  And a lot more.  You probably already know that.  And if you don't; better find some.  Because you're going to need them.

Especially if you're married.  But don't get me started!

I have  feeling Erma had scores of girlfriends.  Did you know that she was a wife and mother for more than 30 years before she hit the typewriter keys and recorded her legendary musings?  Erma was way ahead of her time, snickering at domestic servitude and bucking the system... refusing to succumb to the pressures of the "girl watchers" and acknowledging the bittersweet side of motherhood.  She rocked then, and she still inspires me now.  Because for all our progress, things haven't changed all that much for mothers.  Even pioneer mothers couldn't go to the outhouse without small hands knocking on the door.



And today, just when I needed it most, Julie channeled the Queen Mother herself and delivered me some serious TLC.  And you want a girlfriend like her when you've had one of those weeks.  Better, you want to be a girlfriend like Julie to a friend who's had one of those weeks.  (You know, like when the lice brigades infiltrate the Preschool.  Or when your husband... well, like I said.  Nevermind.)

So thank you, Julie, again.  And cheers to you, Erma... I hope your afterlife has been a bowl of cherries.   Because you lifted a lot of girlfriends out of the pits.

Confessions of an Imperfect Mother

Let’s hit the Powder Room, Ladies.  Today: motherhood.  Even if you’re not one, listen and learn.

My plan was to rock it.  I’d wanted it since 3rd grade, strolling my “Chrissy” doll around the neighborhood.  Motherhood. I was destined for it.

Growing up in the 70’s, I admired Jan Brady.  She artfully managed her brood with steady calm, doling out advice and homemade cookies.  She always looked cute in her stylish plaid, too.

Jan made it look so easy.  But then, she was a TV mom with a housekeeper and an adoring husband.  My life looks a bit different from hers - and I’m not just talking about the polyester.

I wouldn’t say I’ve become the perfect mother in my naïve mind’s eye, eternally patient and poised, always prepared with band-aids and emergency granola bars in my purse.  (More like, I’ve got a crumpled napkin and I can dig out a few lint-covered mints in my purse!)  Like most moms, I can seamlessly cook dinner, scan homework and resolve sibling warfare while cataloguing my workload by priority.  All in all, not bad.  I’m a good enough mom.

Still.

I never did quite measure up to my own standards, and there was a time I felt serious guilt over it.  I obsessed and worried and stressed over every decision I made… and felt terrible that some days I just couldn’t muster much passion for one more game of Chutes and Ladders.  I adored my kids, but no one really tells you the rigors associated with mothering after the new-baby euphoria fades.

As a new mother I felt similarly as a newlywed; blissfully unaware my passion for my new role and for my precious brood would simmer.  Totally unaware I’d wake up one day and the sweet, chirping voice I’d heard from myself had taken on a bit of an edge.  That the doting mommy I once was, consumed by my children, obsessed with doing it all by the book… well, she’d been replaced. 

Mommy 2.0 is tougher.  A bit more so on my kids, a bit less so on myself.  More confident; wiser. I make mistakes, lots of them.  I yell at my kids.  When my husband drives me insane (so glad he rarely reads my blogs) I often fail to edit my responses in front of my kids.  But I also apologize for my mistakes.  I show my children that it’s ok to struggle, to fail, to cry, to yell, to have a full range of emotions. 

Mommies are human too, and while we may be able to explain the differences between a T-Rex and a Stegosaurus, we really don’t have all the answers.  My husband says we should never show a chink in our armor (don’t tell him I told you that), but I disagree.  I’m modeling for my children what it means to walk in the world and respond to its demands, including theirs.  Sometimes the world has to wait, and so do they.

I’m a different mom now - a seasoned one.  Good enough to know I’m doing OK, humble enough to know I can do better. 

So Happy Mother’s Day to me.  And to you.  I might not be a perfect one, but I just got a card where my brood called me the best mom in the world.  Yours probably feel the same way.  Just for today, let’s let them believe it.

My Life, Standing Next to the Dishwasher

It’s the title of the book I’m writing in my head 24/7.  I’d probably have finished it by now, if, well, if I just wasn’t tethered to the dishwasher.  Seems not so much has changed since Erma’s day; with all our advances, we still spend plenty of time in the kitchen.  (Erma Bombeck that is.  She’s my hero… finding humor and camaraderie in her domestic servitude.)

I spend a lot of time here by my dishwasher, fielding long division questions, scanning recipes, wiping counters, and loading and unloading the blasted thing day and day out.  (Sorry, foremothers, because I know you would have killed for an electronic dishwasher to do the scrubbing for you. I apologize for complaining!)  The kitchen carnage left behind from 3 kids and a husband who loves to cook (again, I should be roasted for complaining) is relentless, I tell you.

For a very, very long time I’ve filed my relationship with the dishwasher under, “drudgery.”  I’d rather do about 10 million other things.  But every Princess who weds her dashing Prince discovers she’s still destined for Cinderella’s life after she reaches her brand new castle, full of responsibilities.  Like cleaning the royal “thrones.” 

I truly want to be grateful for my blessings… I mean, all this cleaning proves my life is an abundant one.  Still, dealing with the dishwasher is just plain mind numbing.   And even though I’m delegating dishwasher time to my kids these days, it will be years before they achieve real proficiency.  Years, I tell you.  And so even as their labor provides some emancipation, I’ve got work to do, teaching the fine art of ensuring oatmeal crust is scraped before loading.

I admire the Quakers for believing that every mundane task is worthy of offering thanks to God.  That in doing so, they recognize their relative insignificance to the broader picture.  Hmmm… how to feel grateful about my time standing next to the dishwasher?  I know there’s something I can learn from finding significance in the daily round…

Oh, I know! 

Years ago I placed a group picture of my closest girlfriends just above my sink.  I look at that picture every single day, and am reminded of just how blessed I am for the gift of unfailing friendship.  I know they, too, stand at their dishwashers day in and day out, serving their families, and serving God in the process.  Looking at that picture reminds me that I am just one in a long line of women who’ve underwritten the fabric of our society for centuries.  And I feel satisfied about this work.  And it is without a doubt, work.

How’s that?

It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.  I may as well learn to take pleasure in the contribution it makes to the Kingdom, and to my family.  Now if they’d just learn to scrape that oatmeal first…. 

No. There, I said it… and You Can too!

I can’t be the only one.  The words, “sure, I can do that!” tumble from my mouth; but inside, I might cringe.  Really?  Even though I’m barely keeping my head above water I’m agreeing to yet another commitment?   

Yes.  Because I can’t say no.

I’ve always had to cope with my penchant for saying yes even when I really, really should have said no.  I couldn’t say no to boys when I was 16; I couldn’t say no to my girlfriends when they wanted to skip school; I couldn’t say no to one more hour at the club even when I should’ve been studying for exams.  And today, I can’t bear to say no to the opportunities, invitations and requests that come my way, even when I'm clearly in the weeds.   When I say no to my kids I’m often consumed with guilt.  Why is that?

For me, I think my yes-woman tendencies are tied to my people-pleasing nature.  I want everyone to like me.  To find I am helpful, agreeable, generous or capable.  That I'm a fun mom, a loyal friend, a go-getter with a servant's heart.  If I say no, am I admitting I can’t handle one more thing?  If I turn down an opportunity, will I get another?  Will I make someone mad?  Will they hold it against me forever and curse the day I was born? 

My husband jokes that he’s the only person on earth who gets a no from me.  I really hate to admit he’s right, but he’s hit the nail on the head.  When I say yes to one person, it almost always means I have to turn down something, or someone.  And since I can’t let my kids down, very often, he gets the short end of the stick when it comes to my time and energy.  And what will I have gained if I’ve pleased someone else with a yes and disappointed my husband with a no?

He’s not the only one who suffers when I over-schedule myself with commitments.  I’ve said it before… I am a natural multi-tasker, whirling dervish, Type - A kind of gal.  I love it when my fingers are in all sorts of pies… it makes my life interesting and exciting.  But there have been times when I’ve taken on so much that I can’t sleep at night, or focus on conversations with my “babies” or brush my teeth without worrying I’ve wasted valuable time.  Sometimes, I have to say no so that I can keep the balls juggling seamlessly without dropping one.  Some of you are smiling.  I am the queen of dropped balls.  See where all the yeses can get you?

I’m not saying I’ve perfected the art of saying no.  It's likely I'll never become comfortable saying the n-word.  But occasionally when my hand’s been forced, I take a deep breath, prepare for the world to fall apart, and say it with as much grace as I can muster.  No.  And you know what?  The world hasn’t stopped spinning yet.  People still ask me to do favors, sit on committees, take on projects and go to parties.  And when my life is in balance, it’s just so very sweet to say yes, and mean it. 

Just ask my husband.

The Happiest Place on Earth? A Tricked out RV… Really!

Like Robin Williams said in the movie, “if you really want to find out about yourself, put your family in a RV for a week and travel across the country.”  A girlfriend bristled at the idea and said, “I wouldn’t want to be stuck in an RV with Matthew McConaughey for a week, much less with people expected me to deliver clean underwear!” 

I really love girlfriends who speak the cold, hard truth about family life.   But the kids were sold on our plan, and we decided to make some memories in favor of airplanes and room service. 

So we rented a big old RV, put way too much stuff in it and fled the suburbs.  Off to Disneyland and some beach-time in Southern California.  At least I could make breakfast with a different view!

Honestly, I thought I’d return with a treasure trove of stories of misadventures.  Our family of 5 is pretty tight, but let’s just say we have some, um, high maintenance personalities.  I’m not naming names, but you know I’m not one of them! J

Sorry to disappoint.  No tales of roadside breakdowns, Disneyland meltdowns, wacky travel companions or sewage hook-ups gone awry.  Actually, we rocked.

Mind you, we’ve determined a “vacation” entails white sand, blue waters and not having one single person asking you to cut their chicken.  A “trip” is what you take with kids.  But we’ve had our share of trips where we returned exhausted from all of our “quality time” together, angry that the kids didn’t get along or drop to their knees and thank us profusely for springing them from the hum drum.  (I know.  They’ll do that when they’re about 30.  At least they better!)

But on this trip, the kids rallied.  Helped each other.  Played together.  Mapped out the rides at Disney, complained minimally during the astronomically long lines.  Yes; they did beg for treats; but we broke the rules and scooped up the giant lollipops, Mickey-ears hats and cotton candy.  We spoiled them, but they earned it.  So did we.  It’s really, really fun to say yes… to live with abandon for a few days.  I mean, we were visiting Happiest Place on Earth! 

And for me, our visit to Disney earned Happiest Place on Earth status because I really enjoyed watching my kids get along, work together and enjoy each other’s company.

That is of course, until we arrived home and the squabbles started. Suddenly, long lines and $5 sodas seemed like a vacation.

Your turn.  Tell me your vacation from heaven or he** story!

(No) Fear Factor

In the wake of the devastation in Japan, I read in the newspaper the real risk to these broken people is worse than radiation. It’s the fear and anxiety associated with radiation.

I’m staying in prayer this week for the people of Japan and their neighbors, and I’m contemplating fear.  What do you fear the most?


Me, I’m a recovering scare-dy cat. For as long as I can remember, my personal fear factor jumped off the charts. Everything from closet-dwelling monsters to geometry to the crippling dread that my children might be snatched right under my nose …you name it; I feared it.


Most of my fears never materialized. I’ll give you just one example. Before the babies came along, an employer required passing a killer test I just knew I was destined to fail. Who did I think I was to take on this kind of job? I was terrified. I studied like a madwoman on double shot espresso and was certain, certain I'd to fail. Leave in tears with my scare-dy cat tail tucked.

Not only did I pass the test; I earned the highest score in the class.

I can’t say I learned from that experience right away. I could tell you so many stories like it.  I tip toed through my life, certain the sky was falling.  I didn't take risks for fear of failure; but I didn't learn much either.  Until I was forced into it.

Then, a few years ago, the bottom dropped, for real.  Don't want to go into detail here … but what I can tell you is this. I endured stomach wrenching, immobilizing, searing fear. It brought me to my knees, and made everything else I feared seem innocuous by comparison.  It knocked me down hard… for a season.

Funny thing about meeting up face to face with fear. You emerge... so. much. stronger. Once you stare fear straight in the eye, walk over its coals, heal and recover; well, you can allow the callouses that form to represent strength and mercy.  I'm not the anxiety - ridden person I once was.  But I'm stronger, and softer, at once.


Fear is empowering.  Facing it is a necessary component to growth, to success.  A wise woman once told me to do that which you fear most.  It works.

Now, I'm free from the constant need to protect myself against the shoe dropping.  Because it will.  But I don’t have to ruin today until that happens.

I still experience fear, but now I spank it, tell it to go to its room and think for awhile.  I can’t dwell in the house of fear anymore; I’ve got a life to live.

I don’t know how I would respond to sudden, seismic, cataclysmic fear, such as surviving the crushing events endured by the people of Japan. (Or losing a child, or facing my own mortality.) My prayer is they emerge with a renewed strength and vigor. And, that we each help in some small way. (Text Japan to 80888 and donate $10 to the Salvation Army’s relief efforts.) But I can draw inspiration from survivors. We are far more resilient than we realize.

The biggest fear I’ve got going? Traveling for a solid week in a tricked out, gas guzzling R.V. (did you see that movie?) with three lively, squabbling kids. We’re going to DISNEY! I can’t wait to get to the happiest place on earth. I'll let you know if I face my fear of driving that big rig.

Quote: A woman is like a teabag; you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water. -Eleanor Roosevelt

Prayer: Dear Lord, You are my fortress and my shield. Dwell within me; help me to walk with confidence, compassion, kindness and strength.  Amen.