Imagine this:
Thursday, August 30, 7:39am. First twinge of a contraction. Forty-five minutes later, 3 more contractions. I call The Husband who has just arrived at work.
Oh... this is boring. Dreadfully boring. Let's fast forward.... say 24 hours forward.
I've now had The Peanut. Sitting in a hospital bed recovering. It is day 2 (well for her day 1 and a quarter since she arrived later in the evening). And The Husband has just left me and the baby so he can pick up The Kiddo to meet his baby sister for the first time. But what I didn't know, is that right at the very moment--somewhere near 8am--my mother was digging around under the sink in my master bedroom. What,
pray tell, was she digging in my master bathroom for? A curling iron. Since, she
apparently left hers at home.
At the moment she told me that she did this little bit of
gallivanting (a mere 2 hours from the actual moment of searching), I only rolled my eyes. I mean, curling irons? So 1990s. And my mother. She can't be seen leaving the house without her hair and face done. Not in a million years.
But then, last night, digging around for my new set of contacts... I found out what
my mother did see under my bathroom sink.
101 Nights of Great Sex. Yep. Our sex book. Well a sex book. One that has barely had a seal cracked (the point of the book is to tear open each *page* when you want to have a night a hot,
titillating sex. And it gives you instructions on just how to set the mood and make it happen). It was right there. Front. Center. On the heap of other facial cleansing products, a blow dryer, extra shampoo, a box of tampons and the 6 bars of remaining bars of soap we purchased 2 years ago at
Sam's Club.
Was the book there when we left? Um, likely not. Since, I had completely forgotten the book even existed until today. Does my mom think that The Peanut and The Kiddo were born from immaculate conception? Not likely. But, the idea that I am advertising my sex life for my mother (of all people)? Well it makes me a bit queasy. It's abnormal in our relationship. We don't call each other every day. I never shared boyfriend news (God forbid sexual relationship details) in high school, college, or otherwise. And, never (I mean NEVER) have I decided to share with her my sexual
escapades--even when child rearing had definitely come into the picture.
However--even with my past discretion--I'm thinking she has a damn good idea what happens (or happened) in our bedroom now. Maybe next time I visit I should share with her the cute little pink nightie I purchased for our New Year celebration? Think it will raise some eyebrows?
Labels: life, sex
