Let’s hear it for sexy mothers

Here’s a thing: Mums have sex. Yes, yes we do. And not all of us are only having vanilla sex under extreme duress, because we feel we ‘owe’ our husbands or because it’s their birthday or their team lost or whatever. Mums have sex, and – gasp! – lots of us enjoy it.

I shared my blog with a super-blogger whose writing I really admire and whose opinion I respect, and she (very kindly) said that she likes it – it’s like an ‘anti-mummy blog’. Which on one level I suppose it is, in that it is written by a mother who doesn’t define herself by her offspring.

I love The Boy to pieces. He is my number one priority, my most precious thing, the most amazing creature on the planet. I could write another blog under another name, and fill it with Play-doh and Moonsand and heuristic play and attachment parenting, and the way he calls helicopters ‘hoppycopters’, and… Well, you get the picture. I am a mother, and I try to be a good one.

But at the same time, I am so much more than ‘mummy’.  I am a woman, rediscovering her sexuality after years and years and – seriously – YEARS of sleeping with the same man. I’m doing it safely, I’m keeping my family life and my sex life separate – The Pirate has never met The Boy, and let’s face it, probably never will – and I’m bloody enjoying it.

My sexual reawakening hasn’t happened by choice – it’s one of the happier outcomes of having a bastard for an ex-husband – but I know plenty of women inside long-term relationships and marriages that enjoy sex too. I’m a member of a closed online forum for women, most of whom have children, and you’re just as likely to find conversations about glass dildos and exactly, explicitly, draw-me-a-picture how do you have sex standing up? (something I’ve never mastered), as you are threads about baby-led weaning and what to do in the summer holidays.

So yes. Mums have sex.  OK, we might slow down a bit in the immediate aftermath of the birth. It did take me some time to come to terms with the scar from the episiotomy, and to see my boobs as anything other than lunch. It took longer still for The Boy to start sleeping long enough and reliably enough to find the time and energy for any bedroom action. But it all comes back. I am the same woman I was before I gave birth – maybe a little bit bolder, actually, since there’s nothing like lying back for 35 minutes while a man wearing a head torch(!) sits between your knees with a needle and thread, to make you feel totally and utterly unashamed of your body and its ickier functions.

And setting aside the frankly uncomfortable fact that it means our own mothers could well be filthy whores, why shouldn’t we Mums enjoy sex? Nurturing and nastiness need not be mutually exclusive. It could be argued they’re two sides of the same coin, in fact. By day, I make organic pasta sauce with at least 3 hidden vegetables in it. By night, I make The Pirate bite the pillow using only the very tip of my tongue. And, for now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.


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