10 Reasons Postpartum Sex Isn't Happening

1. I don’t fucking FEEL like it. I mean, I want to… but I don’t feel like it. You know how sometimes you’re hungry and feel like you’re starving to DEATH, but then nothing really sounds good to eat? It’s kinda like that. I love you, and I want to sex you up, but my brain and my body are not exactly sparking on the same wavelength right now.

2. My boobs are sore. And I just got done feeding our kid out of them, so there’s that, too. But mostly, they’re sore and I don’t want them touched any more today. Maybe ever… But at least not right now.

3. One or both of us smells like baby vomit. And I might have spit up in my hair. Who can tell anymore? It might just be on the pillowcase, but regardless, it’s not the most romantic aroma.

4. When I asked for a back rub, I actually meant that my back is KILLING me and I’d like a massage. That was not code for “Please grope me and squeeze my ass.” If I could get just a little affection without being mauled, that would be great, thanks. I’m still a little tender in places.

5. There may or may not be a jungle growing downstairs and I don’t think you want to go there. Let’s just say I haven’t seen a tub of wax or a razor blade since before I went into the hospital.

6. The crying is about as sexy as a limp dishrag. Who wants to get busy with all this crying and snot happening every other 30 minutes? Oh no, not the baby. I meant ME. My after-baby hormones are pure insanity. Tears do not make a good lubricant.

7. I feel fat and mushy. No, I don’t mean I emotionally feel like I look fat and mushy. I mean I physically AM fat and mushy. I’m jigglier than a bowl of your grandma’s jello surprise right now.

8. Who’s idea was it to put the baby’s bassinet in OUR bedroom? I don’t know how anyone ever gets to kid #2 before kid #1 moves into their own room. I cannot even fathom trying to concentrate on having a good time while baby snores drift across the same room. Not. Gonna. Happen.

9. I’ve been on solitary diaper duty for the last 96 hours. Don’t make me start a star chart. Resentment is not an aphrodisiac.

10. I don’t want our children born 10 months apart, thank you very much. Can you blame me?

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