It is the twins birthday this week, they are turning eight. For most of the week I will be patting myself on the back and toasting myself for managing to parent (without badly maiming) two children for eight years.
But also I see the eight year marker as a time for reflection…
I could be typical and tearful and tell you that the years have melted past and it seems like a mere blink ago that I was holding two tiny newborns in the crook of each arm. But, it was twin boy’s birthday party last Sunday and that in itself lasted for at least three days, so I fear I would be fibbing to say that time has flown, when memories of potty training forever, days of dance exams and elongated sweaty swimming lessons still haunt my dreams and linger in my reality.
I cannot believe that it has been eight years since I last sneezed without having to crush my pelvic muscles tightly in an attempt to stop a bit of liquid falling out. It has been eight years since a lie in was a weekend thing with newspapers and coffee, rather than being something you hanker after with a yearning so strong it could be described as pure desperation.
Any parent will agree, once the kids rock up, dump their bags and take up residence at your house, it is impossible to have any hanky panky without being plagued by worry.
It starts when they are babies, the fear of an impromptu yelp of passion being the cause of waking the babies is a severe dampener on the mood. Multiple orgasms don’t even come close to the feeling of five hours straight sleep when you have a little one in the house.
Making ‘boom boom’ when the bairns turn into mobile creatures creates a whole new fear sensation. Spontaneity all but disappears once you have children and all action is confined to the bedroom. Before having a family, I recall christening every room in the house as a fun filled festivity. Now the thought of rumpy on the kitchen table is rapidly killed by the remnants of play doh in the cracks and the image of the twins eating their toast in the morning. Same goes for having a swifty in the shower or a quickie on the couch, once the kids have been there, you no longer want to play hide the sausage anywhere near.
Even in the privacy of your own room, with the door squeezed tight and a pillow against the bottom of the wood to muffle the sounds of squeaking bed frames, the fear still festers.
What if they hear the sounds of loving in action?
What if the noise of nookie disturbs them?
And oh sweet Jesus, What if they walk in to find Daddy treating Mummy to a round of bedtime Olympics and the pair of us approaching a sprint finish….
The fear of scaring the children for life by the sight of middle aged parental humping is too much to bear.
It has been eight years since I had a fear free fumble. In fact, it is only thanks to an all night babysitting offer that our youngest even managed to be conceived.
Eight years on limited sleep, with very little loving time, and a fair few accidents caused by sneezing.
It has been the time of my life.
Happy birthday kids – please don’t ever read this!