Sex After Babies

Lots of writing has been falling into my feed lately on the subject of sex after babies.  Most of it lands somewhere on the spectrum between worthless and harmful.  I ruined the only article I liked (along the lines of: "we didn't have sex for a year and it was not the end of the world") by reading the comments.

"Keep that spark alive!" literature is unrealistic and sexist.  It assumes that women don't value sex in their marriage, and it places the blame on them for simply not trying hard enough to work through the exhaustion of tending to young children to "please yo man."  If he happens to then leave his family or become unfaithful, well, you should have know better than to deprive him, you cold bitch.  When the changes to a woman's postpartum body are mentioned at all, it is usually in the form of a revolting joke about hotdogs and hallways -- enough to set any prospective young mother on the path to adoption. 

As with all things sex, baby, and body, I can not speak for all women, and I'm not going to try.  If this isn't applicable to you because you were a happy, healthy sex goddess who ditched her 6 weeks of recommended pelvic rest for lots of sexy times, then good for you!

I would much prefer not to have sex at all until I am done breastfeeding. 

The problem is not a stretched out vagina. My muscle tone is great and, really, not much has changed since having babies.  Birth is a miracle.  Vaginas are magic.  Mine bounced back.  Hooray for that.

The problem is not that I am a prude.  I love sex.  I am perfectly capable of orgasm.  Even when I'm tired.  Even when I'm grumpy.  Lucky me. 

The problem is not Hub.  We've been together over a decade.  We figured each other out a very long time ago.  He's great with my body.  I couldn't ask for better. 

The problem is not undervaluing sex.  Being married to a man who isn't much of a talker, physical intimacy accounts for the best intimacy I get.  I value it very highly.

The problem is not being exhausted.  The problem is not being touched by children all day.  The problem is not poor mood.  None of these things help, but they are not the problem.

The problem is not lack of lubrication.  They make the 12 oz bottle just for girls like me.  The problem is not lack of foreplay.  Trust me.  It's not.

The problem is breastfeeding.  As long as I am breastfeeding, sex hurts.  It hurts like a knife in my vagina, and it leaves me wounded for days.  I, who did not tear at all when I gave birth to 7 lb 3 oz Lucia, ripped, externally, from vagina to urethra last time I had sex -- the gentlest, daintiest, most liberally lubricated sex.  I had to call the doctor and get a topical prescription pain killer.  I couldn't sit down for two days, and I couldn't pee without crying for four.  

"I broke you."  Hub said, sadly, when I told him.

It wasn't his fault.  I was the one with the feedback (pain), and I should have spoken up.  But I didn't.  Partly because of all this crap I've been reading, I thought to myself, "It will be over soon. Take this one for the team."  I never wanted to feel that way about sex.

I started to cry.  This is what I hate about breastfeeding.  I love the closeness with my baby.  It is so convenient to produce food on demand.  I think it's excellent nutrition.  I believe it is good for my baby's immune system.  But I hate what it does to my body.   High-progesterone state is the way my nurse-midwife put it when she saw the fissures in my tissue-thin skin and wrote off a prescription for estrogen creme.  It wasn't enough to save me from love with my husband.

As though he could hear my thoughts, Hub, man of few words, chose exactly the right ones.  He wrapped his arms around me, rested his chin on my head.

"Thank you for breastfeeding our baby."