toilet for the fourth time this morning, clutching the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
in my hands and pretending to go, yet again.
In the beginning, Jonah got so concerned about my colon that he insisted I see an internist.
“It’s not normal,” he said, looking at me like he’d just been sent over from the local hospice. “You know, to make…well, you know…to have a…you know…to
poop
so much.”
I laughed so hard I almost
pooped
my pants. I assured himthat I was fine, but he remained unconvinced. I had to suffer through a week of his sidelong glances, which ranged from wistful to tremulous to downright panicked. It was then I realized that Jonah was terrified of losing me. Actually, he probably was less concerned about losing me than about being left alone with three kids under five whose greatest influences at the time were an annoying six-foot-tall purple dinosaur and an annoying two-foot-tall furry red Muppet named Elmo. (
La la la la, la la la la,
Jonah’s
World!
) That would scare the
poop
out of anyone.
So I finally let him off the hook and explained to him that
le toilette
offered me a moment’s reprieve from the demands of motherhood. To which he replied, “Why do you need a reprieve?” (At which I may have considered kicking him in the balls.)
By seven fifteen on this Friday morning, I have already endured three juvenile meltdowns and an uncharacteristic postcoital argument with my spouse. Jonah had awakened me with an insistent erection at five forty-five, which I dutifully accepted despite my complete lack of interest. (A week has passed since our shower copulation and my impersonation of a sexual automaton, and although at the time I vowed never to have sex with my husband again, sometimes it’s easier to just let them have a go.) This morning, I thought that I might actually get some pleasure out of the deal and that my dreamlike stupor would promote a happy ending for both of us, but I was wrong. I could not, for the life of me, become aroused enough to climax, and the more I tried, the further from orgasm I got. I was finally so chafed, physically
and
mentally, that I had to fake it again. Not that Jonah noticed. He came with a thunderous groan that I was sure would wake up the children, leaving me to wonder why mylibido had suddenly taken a vaycay and whether I should investigate some kind of sexual therapy. Well, at least Jonah was satisfied.
I had been vertical for only ten minutes when the day went from bad to worse. It began before breakfast with Jessie’s tirade about her beloved denim skirt that had not yet made it through the laundry cycle. The way she ranted and raved about my failings as a mother, I could have sworn my eight-year-old daughter was having her period. This was followed by Matthew’s tearful proclamation that his Target boxer briefs were a “travesty” and “unacceptable” in the boys’ locker room and that only Calvin Kleins would be suitable garments to encase his decidedly scrawny nether parts. Then Connor sent me over the edge by turning on the Wii before school, which I consider a mutinous and grievous act rooted in his tween obligation to rebel against his parents at any and every opportunity.
After threatening to disconnect the contraption, I regained a modicum of control only to be informed by my husband that he had a client dinner tonight which he had failed to mention earlier. “What’s the big deal?” he asked when I complained. “It’s not like you have some big Friday night planned.”
“No, Jonah,” I replied, attempting to keep my voice calm and steady. “I have book club tonight. It’s on the calendar. You put it in your friggin’ Outlook, for God’s sake.” I swear, Jonah would forget to pee without a reminder from his scheduling software.
“What am I supposed to do, cancel? This is the CEO of the Irvine Company. So you miss one book club.”
He showed little or no remorse when I told him that six other people were counting on me,
Ladies Living-Well Journal
in my hands and pretending to go, yet again.
In the beginning, Jonah got so concerned about my colon that he insisted I see an internist.
“It’s not normal,” he said, looking at me like he’d just been sent over from the local hospice. “You know, to make…well, you know…to have a…you know…to
poop
so much.”
I laughed so hard I almost
pooped
my pants. I assured himthat I was fine, but he remained unconvinced. I had to suffer through a week of his sidelong glances, which ranged from wistful to tremulous to downright panicked. It was then I realized that Jonah was terrified of losing me. Actually, he probably was less concerned about losing me than about being left alone with three kids under five whose greatest influences at the time were an annoying six-foot-tall purple dinosaur and an annoying two-foot-tall furry red Muppet named Elmo. (
La la la la, la la la la,
Jonah’s
World!
) That would scare the
poop
out of anyone.
So I finally let him off the hook and explained to him that
le toilette
offered me a moment’s reprieve from the demands of motherhood. To which he replied, “Why do you need a reprieve?” (At which I may have considered kicking him in the balls.)
By seven fifteen on this Friday morning, I have already endured three juvenile meltdowns and an uncharacteristic postcoital argument with my spouse. Jonah had awakened me with an insistent erection at five forty-five, which I dutifully accepted despite my complete lack of interest. (A week has passed since our shower copulation and my impersonation of a sexual automaton, and although at the time I vowed never to have sex with my husband again, sometimes it’s easier to just let them have a go.) This morning, I thought that I might actually get some pleasure out of the deal and that my dreamlike stupor would promote a happy ending for both of us, but I was wrong. I could not, for the life of me, become aroused enough to climax, and the more I tried, the further from orgasm I got. I was finally so chafed, physically
and
mentally, that I had to fake it again. Not that Jonah noticed. He came with a thunderous groan that I was sure would wake up the children, leaving me to wonder why mylibido had suddenly taken a vaycay and whether I should investigate some kind of sexual therapy. Well, at least Jonah was satisfied.
I had been vertical for only ten minutes when the day went from bad to worse. It began before breakfast with Jessie’s tirade about her beloved denim skirt that had not yet made it through the laundry cycle. The way she ranted and raved about my failings as a mother, I could have sworn my eight-year-old daughter was having her period. This was followed by Matthew’s tearful proclamation that his Target boxer briefs were a “travesty” and “unacceptable” in the boys’ locker room and that only Calvin Kleins would be suitable garments to encase his decidedly scrawny nether parts. Then Connor sent me over the edge by turning on the Wii before school, which I consider a mutinous and grievous act rooted in his tween obligation to rebel against his parents at any and every opportunity.
After threatening to disconnect the contraption, I regained a modicum of control only to be informed by my husband that he had a client dinner tonight which he had failed to mention earlier. “What’s the big deal?” he asked when I complained. “It’s not like you have some big Friday night planned.”
“No, Jonah,” I replied, attempting to keep my voice calm and steady. “I have book club tonight. It’s on the calendar. You put it in your friggin’ Outlook, for God’s sake.” I swear, Jonah would forget to pee without a reminder from his scheduling software.
“What am I supposed to do, cancel? This is the CEO of the Irvine Company. So you miss one book club.”
He showed little or no remorse when I told him that six other people were counting on me,
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