Folks who have been married for a few years, like my wife and me, know that romance can take a backseat to all the other pressures life throws at you. Sex appears on the “To Do” list, and is never likely to appear before work, laundry, dishes and mortgage payments.
For married folk who have kids, the horizontal Mambo is added as a proverbial footnote or addendum to that ever-growing list. It’s just a fact of married life, and those of us who live it aren’t always too happy with that fact.
If you enjoy sex, you should never get married, as it undoubtedly lends to a situation of complacency, and you should never have kids, as they tend to prove the most effective birth control of all.
Every now and then, however, there are stolen moments when, in the midst of all the crushing pressures and continuous chaos, the love that brought you both together shines – briefly, but shine it does, with the intense radiance of 1000 suns.
It is in those moments that you realize that the connection you have with your partner transcends the mundane daily grind, and makes each of you realize that just with a simple look, a peck that turns into a lingering kiss, or an embrace that raises the hair on the back of your neck — that it’s all been worth while. These moments even transcend specific carnal, wanton and deepest desires of each individual in the partnership, and what transpires is a moment of pure understanding and unity.
One year not too long ago, our anniversary had arrived, and although we had very little money, we ordered in some pizza anyway. My son was eight, my daughter five, and they voraciously packed back a good four pieces of Meat Lover’s each.
Even with their bellies almost bursting, the kids insisted on having a gooey chocolate sundae for dessert. Heck, it was a night for celebrating, and the excess sugar was bound to wear off eventually. Pretty soon the kids were tucked into their beds, stories were read and lights turned out. Shortly after that I could hear their breathing patterns deepen, as sleep enveloped them like an extra down-filled quilt.
“Kids are out…,” I half-whispered to my wife, who was in the kitchen pouring a glass of Shiraz. She pressed the cork back into the half-empty bottle and had a sip. She looked up, smiling broadly in her quiet, confident way, and then wrapped her arms around my neck. Nothing needed to be said at that very moment, as we both pulled each other into our embrace and kissed. My hands wandered purposefully along her lean and supple frame, and she emitted a low, guttural “mmm”of approval. That single, barely audible utterance was all my body needed to react – I could feel my heart rate increase, as my blood flow became dedicated to another, more southern region of my torso.
My wife excused herself to have a shower. She drained her glass of wine, and suggested I light some candles to set the mood. I ushered the cat and two dogs off of our queen-sized bed, and hoped that they stayed away (which rarely happens). Soon, our cramped little room was alight, and slow undulating music played as I made the bed and fluffed up the pillows.
I undressed, donned my bathrobe and sprayed on some cologne. I double-checked and tripl- checked the room to ensure that everything in our little love nest was perfect. Then, I heard a sound. It was a like a cat meowing in reverse. I dismissed it as one of the pets grunting or half-sneezing or grumbling…
Then, I heard it again but this time it was much more pronounced — and human.
I went to check on the children. As I passed the bathroom I could literally smell my wife’s perfume emanating from under the door. I could even hear the clicking of some high heels as she moved on the linoleum. The immediate mental images mixed with a deep steamy sandalwood aroma aroused me further. I cracked the door to my son’s room and he was snoring soundly. I tiptoed to my daughter’s room, and I heard the wounded sound again. I pushed the door open slowly so as not to wake her just in case it was a bad dream. She was sitting up in her bed, slumped forward and rocking slightly.
“Are you okay?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“I… pooped, Daddy…,” she responded, and began to cry.
I walked in and sat on the edge of her bed, and brushed her hair back out of her face. I wiped her tears and told her that everything was going to be all right. Then, I peeled back her comforter, cooing all the while to keep her calm, in hopes that the clean-up would be quick, and unobtrusive to my soon to be hot love fest. The hall light that shone through the open door behind me barely illuminated the room, but my eyes were quickly adjusting so I could consider the mess and the best approach to clean it.
In my life, I have changed countless diapers, shoveled almost every type of fecal matter one can find on a farm, and mopped countless puddles of vomit from the floors of various nightclub bathrooms. I have smelled offensive rotting compost, and have even had the misfortune of enduring the stench of decaying flesh — but nothing, NOTHING, prepared me for the ordeal I was about to encounter.
The semi-solid, slightly chunky multi-coloured puddle my daughter was sitting in had to be close to three feet square, at least an inch deep and was still warm. The stench hit me like being struck on the head by a two-by-four, and my stomach dropped hard as I instinctively began to breathe – as little as I could – through my mouth. I flipped the bedroom light on (which was a necessary evil), wrapped an unsoiled blanket on my daughter while removing her nightie.
“Is everything okay?” I heard my wife call from the kitchen. In my shock, I had completely forgotten about her, and all her sexiness and high heels and perfume and ANY erotic scenarios that might play out this evening.
“Fine, everything’s FINE!” I blurted back at her, gagging and choking through the syllables.
It took a while, but I managed to clean my daughter up, lay her gently down beside her brother, and she fell fast asleep. I dumped the soiled bedclothes into the bathtub, hosed them off and then tossed them into the clothes washer. After that, I had a well-deserved shot of tequila to calm my nerves, washed my hands a tenth time, and headed towards the boudoir.
Again, I smelled the heady aroma of perfume as I slowly slid the door open. Those erotic thoughts returned in an instant like a strobing slide show. Candles flickered, music played, and there she was: My beautiful wife, laying on the bed dressed in a matching garter belt and bustier, black high-heeled boots and her gorgeous, natural long red hair flowing over one of the perfectly plumped pillows…Fast asleep and snoring like a broken chainsaw.
“Love Laundry” Not Soo. Innocent. @ flickr. Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.
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