A New Parent’s Handy Guide to Sex After Childbirth. (And Now, During Quarantine!)

Let’s talk about sex.

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Don’t worry. I’m not going to share any details that will make anyone uncomfortable or have to avoid eye contact with me. Because this is about sex once you have a child

Good luck! 

Okay, that’s it. 

I’m kidding! Of course sex still happens. It’s just different. And from my experience, it comes in stages. Haha. See what happened there? Every relationship varies, and things like postpartum depression and C-sections and tearing, (who’s feeling sexy now, folks?) can affect everything. But I’ve taken a quick straw poll of other moms I know, and most agree with this rough timeline, post-childbirth. 

STAGE ONE:  Zero to four months.  

GET OUT. No fuckin’ way are you putting that thing in the scene of the crime. We are still healing. Yes, I said “we” because your vagina develops a personality of its own when you give birth. You are not only more aware of its constant, awe-inspiring presence, you would not want to meet it in a dark alley on the wrong night. 

When our daughter was a newborn, my husband and I joined PEPS, the early parent support group. If you’re not familiar, PEPS is this awesome and validating place where you meet with new parents once a week to swap sleep deprivation stories and compare gashes from your baby’s precious, tiny, switch-blade fingernails. About three meetings in, someone (a husband, surprise!) brought up the topic of when the “appropriate” time to start having sex again was. He stated, matter-of-factly, that “Our doctor said five weeks! So…” As if it were really just a precaution. Like how you should wait an hour after eating before you to jump into the deep end. I mean, if the doc gave the green light, then what are you waiting for!?! All of the couples were nearing the five-week mark, and as his wife glared a baby-sized hole into him, the rest of us laughed that quiet, knowing laugh when you feel sorry for someone who’s about to experience at least six more months of celibacy.  


STAGE TWO:  Around five months. 

You’re getting into a schedule, you’ve had the opportunity to shower once or twice, and you might even be having sexy-times feelings again. But if you breastfeed, then you’re also dealing with a tiny, adorable potato sucking you dry several times a day and night. And regardless of whether you go with breast, bottle or both, you’ve still got a 24-hour cycle of said potato burping up, pooping and peeing on you. So introducing another human who also needs your physical contact, unless it’s timed as perfectly as a rocket launch with your hormones and the lack of the potato’s bodily fluids on you, can go awry. 


STAGE THREE: Six months to a year. 

You’re starting to get your body back! You vaguely remember what sleeping is like! The idea seems somewhat positive that you could engage in consensual adult…sleeping. No! Not sleeping! Wake up! Cause it’s time for intentional contact of your bathing suit areas! And this is when you discover a new and exciting type of getting it on. It’s called Silent Movie Sex. Because whether your baby’s crib is in your room or theirs, satisfying your carnal desires is nothing compared to time alone. And you do not want to do anything that might disturb your miraculous, perfect, beautiful, sleeping time bomb. So sex must be performed with the careful, deliberate movements of a burglar avoiding laser tripwires. This includes no squeaking of mattresses, no banging of headboards, no rustling of sheets and no audible breathing. So you’re basically like two mimes, laying on top of each other. 

STAGE FOUR: Two to three years.

Once your baby starts sleeping better and/or can entertain themselves if they wake up, comes (ha, there it is again) the carefree stage. You’re not as worried about making noise, and your little one is still unaware enough that even if you screamed “Nail me, baby!” during 5-6 minutes of major pounding, your kid would just think you were playing Bob the Builder. 

STAGE FIVE: Four to five years.

At this point you start being more careful again because your child is gaining an awareness of the world and, more importantly, they can go to daycare or kindergarten and repeat the phrase “Nail me, baby.” Or, during story time, they might decide to share an exciting recount of how Mommy and Daddy like to wrestle naked sometimes.

 

STAGE SIX:  Seven years and up. 

Once your kids partially or fully understand how babies are made, and you also remember how much you wanted to loofah your brain as a child when you realized your parents actually did it, you’re back to mime sex. So again, you find yourself flipping the mattress, tightening the bolts of the bed frame, and if you’re lucky, counting down the minutes till the kids spend the night somewhere. Or, you go away to a hotel together. Alone. And I specify hotel, because you do not want a B&B. If you go to a B&B, you’re going to be in the same situation as if you’re at home or in the guest bed at your in-laws. Because in the morning, you’ll have to go downstairs, make eye contact and share strawberry preserves and breakfast breads with the people who spent the night on the other side of the wall you were banging up against for a solid 45 minutes. Did I say 45? Sorry, that was a typo. I meant four to five minutes. Cause let’s be real. That bed is super comfy and it’s so, so quiet. Plus, you had wine with dinner. 

 

STAGE SEVEN:  Empty nesters. 

Crazytown! At this point, the kids are grown and off to college and you have the house back to yourself! It’s like pre-kids, only with more wrinkles, less flexibility, and a everything smells like Icy Hot. You can do it anytime! At any volume! Anywhere from the laundry room to the foyer! Unless you’re expecting a delivery and you checked that box where they can let themselves inside your front door to leave a package. Then don’t choose the foyer. Amazon doesn’t pay those people enough for that. 

 

BONUS! STAGE EIGHT: Quarantine.

Know that phrase “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”? The lesser-known corollary is “Quarantine makes the libido go yonder.”

You’ve spent 37 hours a day with your family for eight weeks. Stretchy pants and old, company retreat t-shirts are the norm. Neither you nor your spouse is on a regular shower schedule and there’s a chance you’ve cut and/or colored each other’s hair. Locks on the doors are a joke because your younger kids are as desperate for social interaction as you are for six seconds of alone time. College kids have moved back home, and if you’re really lucky, there’s an in-law or two in the guest bedroom to really heat things up. Add in the fact that you and your spouse have witnessed each other playing the role of employee, boss, line cook, housecleaner, coach, doomsday prepper, pessimistic recluse, manic optimist, realistic therapist, unwilling patient and shitty homeschool teacher. And for the final blow, nose hair trimming, if it happens at all, happens with the door wide open. In other words, there is no privacy. There is no separation. There is no mystery anymore. 

So any sex that’s happening is likely a sleepy accident through a hole in your worn-out pajama pants. I genuinely hope you wake up to enjoy it and that it’s also dark because, nose hair. And if you make a baby, congratulations! That’s beautiful and miraculous and the kind of good news the world needs right now. 

Please refer to Stages One through Seven above, as needed. 

 

All Together Now, Six Feet Apart.

Let me start by stating the obvious. Things are scary right now. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so uncertain about, well, everything. 

I also want to acknowledge that I’m lucky. My husband and I are both able to easily work from home or his small office, which qualified as social distancing before it was all the rage. We have food and heat and iPhones and laptops and Zoom and Teams and kids old enough to not need something from us every 17 seconds. We also have enough toilet paper and dry pasta, in case you’re wondering. But not too much.  

This all gives me the luxury of not only remaining fairly calm, but finding a silver lining in all this mayhem. Of keeping a perspective that fills my heart whenever I join my coworkers on a video call or I go on social media. And yes, I’m reading the same stuff you are. I’m just focusing on the love in between the fear. The bright spots amidst the darkness. And the overwhelming feeling that we’re all in this together.

A rare photo of everyone who’s affected by this.

A rare photo of everyone who’s affected by this.

Never before, (at least in my lifetime) has the world been so unified in a similar experience. No matter our race, religion, geographic location or season, we’re all facing the effects of this virus on our daily lives at roughly the same time. So we’re able to not just feel sympathy, but true empathy for our fellow humans. If shared trauma bonds us, we’re bonding with the entire world.  

Because of the amazing technological age we’re living in, we’re also able to gather information and share our trials and tribulations in real time. Ironically, our lack of physical togetherness is causing us to break down our walls and be more open and vulnerable. We’re reaching out to help neighbors we’ve never met. We’re joining in choruses from our balconies with strangers. We’re sharing our anxieties and fears and offering support to coworkers. We’re waving our kids and pets and spouses over to say “hi” to people during our video calls, because we don’t have to pretend those two worlds are separate. Sure, we’re all a little distracted. How could we not be? But we’re letting down our guard and sharing our true selves. Because we’re all human, we’re all scared, and we’re all in this together. 

Shit is getting real, and some of it in the best way possible.  

This realness is also revealing the truth. If compassion is our currency right now, the pandemic is exposing those who lack it. Companies who aren’t supporting their employees to keep them healthy, businesses who aren’t adapting to help their communities and workers, elected officials who aren’t rising up and putting the health and safety of their citizens first – they’re all showing themselves. And when things return to more normalcy are we’re all reassessing where we place our loyalty and our business and our trust, it will be with the companies, brands and leaders who looked out for us when we were down. When we all were down, together. 

See, Karma’s a bitch, and she’s immune to the pandemic. 

At the same time, the heroes are rising up, and they’re everywhere. Neighbors offering to run errands, restaurants changing their models to deliver food, people creating fundraisers to help support everyone from brave healthcare workers to the homeless to the recently unemployed. There are parents offering tips on how to keep kids learning and how to avoid breaking out the martini shaker at 10:30 am. Organizations offering free access to their online content, schools offering breakfasts and lunches to lower income kids and everyone sharing pictures of how happy their dogs are to have them at home.

Especially in our work-obsessed society, I also can’t help but wonder if the way we work will change for the better, too. Our perpetual need to feel busy and productive is being exposed as we eliminate commute times and “pop-ins,” water cooler recaps and after-meeting meetings. Suddenly we’re left with a little extra time. Time to focus on our families, our communities, and god forbid, ourselves. I can’t count the number of people I’ve seen looking for book recommendations. As if we’ve finally been given permission to take a moment to read. Or write. Or go on a walk with our kids at noon on a Tuesday. Which, by the way, they’ll never forget. If time is our most precious resource, most of us just experienced a windfall. And how we use it is up to us.

I don’t want to dismiss the severity of the situation. People are dying. Others are struggling to make ends meet. Our healthcare workers are selflessly and tirelessly putting themselves on the line to care for us. We owe them all our support. Whether that’s through organized efforts, money, or simply staying the eff home so we don’t spread the virus.

There is something we can spread, though, and that’s light. By focusing on the good we see in the world. By sharing it. “Look for the helpers,” as Mr. Rogers said. Even better, be one yourself. We are in an unprecedented time of worry and fear. But we can also help make it a time of unprecedented unity. Unprecedented creativity and problem solving. And unprecedented hope. 

Because in the end, we’re all in this together. 

It’s About to Get Real Woo-woo in Here.

I can’t deny it any longer.

I’ve got a bad case of the woo-woos.

I’m not sure if it’s mid-life or personal circumstances or the strong “wanna come hang at my place for the Apocalypse?”-y vibe the world is putting out right now, but I’ve been drawn to go inside. Not like hunkering down in fleece house pants, eating soup directly from the can inside, but spiritually inside. To get in touch with something bigger, something beyond the day to day bullshit we spend so much time focusing on that’s really good at seeming “important,” until you realize the truly Important stuff has been waiting in the background all along. The truly Important stuff is always way more patient than the bullshit.

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The woo-woos aren’t totally new to me. Even as a little girl, I remember feeling a tingly giddiness when I was in nature. I never went to church, so I had no ideas about religion or spirituality. (If John Denver counts, though, I did memorize all his albums.)  Yet I felt an unmistakable energy when I sat on this one, bright green patch of moss that looked like a teeny forest and made me feel like a giant. And I found wild contentment wading through the tall grass, shooting my bow and arrow at fenceposts and then flopping onto my back to stare up at the sky. (I was also a crappy shot, so no fenceposts were harmed in the making of this memory.) 

I guess I’ve been dipping my toes in Woo-woo Lake my whole life. But always tentatively, with my jeans rolled up, staying near the shore. 

But no more, friends. Nope. I have changed into my woo-woo swimsuit, and dove (dived?) straight into the deep end. (My swimsuit, btw, is a super-cute, practical, halter-top bikini with reasonable coverage on the bottom so I don’t have to continually tug the back down over my ass cheeks.) I find I cannot successfully connect to universal energy when I’m worried about ass cheek coverage. 

I’d say the real woo-woos started about five years ago, when I was feeling professionally blah, and I read Jen Sincero’s book, “You Are A Badass” over spring break. I came home with a newfound focus and a pep in my step. Actually, more than pep, it was a feeling of power. Because I had spent my entire career giving SO MANY fucks about what other people thought, I had lost touch with what I believed and what I stood for. Plus, the book was super funny and there was swearing. I re-read it still whenever I need a boost. 

Then in 2016, I attended an advertising conference where comedian and transformational speaker Kyle Cease gave a keynote. He was so funny and inspiring and talked about how it was good to make mistakes and that we have all the answers inside and why it’s important to give yourself permission to do what you love. I have never given myself permission to do much of anything except 1) try to be perfect and 2) drink Jack in the Box Cookies n’ Cream milkshakes in excess when I was pregnant with Cassidy. For my whole life, I’ve kept myself on a very tight leash. So, the revelation that I was enough, and that trying to stay in constant control was actually holding me back, was groundbreaking. 

I figured everyone else loved Kyle’s talk as much as I had. But I later found out that while half the audience loved him, the other half full-on hated him. This wasn’t totally surprising, though, since the ad industry is cynic central. Cynicism can be funny. Sharp-witted people tend to be cynical. Most great humor is at the expense of someone else. And many of us spend the majority of our advertising careers trying to be funnier, smarter, cleverer and cooler than the next person. Being woo-woo, by contrast, seems soft. Naïve. Too bright and shiny and eager. 

But being cynical can be draining and lonely, because it doesn’t allow us to trust in anything except the idea that life is irritating and we’re all gonna die. (Okay, some truth there.) Being cynical also limits our connection to ourselves and others. Unless it’s to judge/talk shit about ourselves and others. I know this because I’ve done my share of judging and shit talking, and I understand how good if feels in the moment. It’s a bonding exercise! It’s fun! Like eating an entire family-sized bag of circus animal cookies in one sitting or doing Jägermeister shots (Note: I’ve never actually done Jägermeister shots. See: “tight leash,” above.) But the high is short-lived. Afterwards, you just feel worse because you’ve lifted yourself up by putting someone else down. Usually out of insecurity or fear. And it always comes back to bite you. As shit talk about you. Or a hangover. Or gas. All bad feeling things. Actually, wouldn’t it be amazing if shit talking automatically gave us gas? We’d all be so much nicer! Although middle and high schools would smell way worse.  

Anyway, immediately after Kyle Cease’s keynote, I downloaded his audiobook “I Hope I Screw This Up” and listened to the entire thing on my flight home from New York. It was life changing. For about six months, I gave the book to so many friends and family members that my husband threatened to send me out on weekends to knock on doors and spread the word. I backed off a little.

At this same time, I realized that instead of spending my long-ass daily commute listening to DJ’s make crank calls pretending to be a plumber who accidentally installed a toilet in the living room, I could use that time to listen to uplifting authors and speakers! And thus my “Commute Therapy” was born.  

For the past three years, I’ve spent at least two hours every weekday listening to audiobooks, podcasts and videos about all things woo-woo. Universal energy. Alignment. Meditation. Letting go. “The work.” My inner child. Holding space. Joy. Darkness. Vulnerability. Shame. Fear. Spirit guides. High vibration. Tap-dancing aliens, diarrhea and binoculars. (Kyle Cease is big on metaphors.) Magic. Oneness. And most of all, love. My commute buddies have included Jen Sincero, Kyle Cease, Byron Katie, Gabrielle Bernstein, Elizabeth Gilbert, Brené Brown, Wayne Dyer, the Almighty Oprah, and all her enlightened guests. These commute buddies don’t allow me to take the HOV lane, but that’s fine. More time to embrace my woo-wooness. 

When I say that listening to audiobooks has transformed my commute from something I dread into something I look forward to, people invariably ask me what I listen to. I’m pretty sure they’re hoping for true crime podcast suggestions or at least something by Gary Vee, so I usually answer with a vague, “I like the self-helpy stuff and memoirs by comedians.” The reality is, I don’t want to scare anyone off. (Too late now.) The part of me that still wants to embrace the smart cynicism of the ad industry is afraid. Afraid if I admit I only listen to stuff about finding my light and aligning with the energy of the universe, I’ll come off as a naïve dum-dum. But I don’t want to feel that way anymore, plus, I don’t think I’m alone. It seems a lot of other people are also searching for a feeling of “enoughness.” A daily dose of love to overcome the hate. Like me, they’re yearning for flickers of joy and inspiration and magic. Not Criss Angel in a straitjacket magic, but “we are all connected, love is the answer, release your chokehold and everything will work out” magic.  

Now, going full woo-woo doesn’t mean I will dance around you waving crystals, or that I’m going to denounce all my personal possessions and start wearing flowy, knee-length vest-tunics. (Is it a vest? Is it a tunic? Is it a long scarf with arm holes?) In fact, if it weren’t for reading this, you may not even know about my woo-wooness. The beauty of inner work is, it’s um, inner. I can’t control other people. I can only control what I choose to focus on in any given moment. But by choosing again and again to be more present, open, empathetic and grateful, I will hopefully, occasionally, give off energy that helps other people feel more present, open, empathetic and grateful, too.

If you hate all the self-helpy stuff, don’t worry. My woo-wooness is only contagious if you’re receptive to it. You’ve probably already stopped reading, anyway. Or you’re protecting yourself with cynicism and some very impressive arguments about reality or how you can’t actually be happy all the time. (You’re right! That’s not the point! See how empathy brings us closer?) Maybe you’ve even stuck with reading this because it’s proof that I’ve been a little kooky all along. I know these tactics because I’ve used them myself. And I’m sorry. But if there’s one reoccurring theme in all the woo-wooness I’ve embraced, it’s that we’re all the same deep down. We’re all connected. Separation is what creates all our pain and issues. And realizing we’re all going through the same shit in some form or other is incredibly freeing. 

So I’m going to keep swimming around in Woo-woo Lake. Cause the world is scary right now. My industry feels like it’s having a midlife crisis. And I recently moved my family in with my mom, which is a difficult adjustment for all of us. Harnessing the love and power of my woo-wooness is making it all not just bearable, but damn near miraculous. I’m in the moment more often. I’ve felt more connected to my dad who passed away two years ago than I often did when he was alive. I’ve started discovering little synchronicities and miracles almost daily, that I’d normally chalk up to coincidence, but are too frequent and magical to dismiss. And when I feel pressure or conflict at work, I can quickly find compassion and patience instead of frustration and negativity. (No, not all the time. I’m not Baby Yoda, for chrissakes.)  But every moment I’m able to trade love for fear, I’m a better person. As my very smart, funny, spiritually wise friend who deals with a lot of darkness says, “a benevolent force is guiding us all.” And I find that profoundly reassuring. 

Yeah, but what about the real world, Jennie? What about actual problems? Are you saying that the woo-woos will improve my athlete’s foot? What about the discrepancy between forecasted resourcing and my quarterly profit margin goals that will never allow me to beat Q1 growth projections? And what about my neighbor’s dog who keeps shitting on our lawn?  

Um, yeah. It can help with all of that. Focus on what’s truly Important, and the “important” stuff will fall into place.  

And what if I’m wrong? What if I am naïve or gullible or a Pollyanna? What if the synchronicities are just random coincidences? Who cares? Because feeling like every action I take, even on a crappy or humdrum day, is guiding me towards something bigger- that’s an uplifting way to live. Believing it’s a miracle when a friend reaches out moments after I’ve thought of her– that’s pure joy. Or feeling a gust of wind as I think of my dad? That’s spine-tingling magic. You can have your cynicism, your realism and your rapier wit. I’ll take the hairs on the back of my neck standing up because I opened a book to the exact quote I needed in that moment. I’ll take the wave of bliss when I feel my creativity take over and I’m just along for the ride. I’ll hold on to the comfort of knowing that it’s all going to be okay. Because it already is. 

So, if you’re feeling inclined, I invite you to jump into Woo-woo Lake, too. At least dip your toes in. There’s peace here. Sometimes answers. The occasional spark of magic, sigh of relief and plenty of love and support. And you can wear whatever you want. 

Yep, even a vest-tunic.