When I was growing up this was how we knew my parents were about to have sex:
The weekend would find us (my siblings, parents and me) all sitting in the living room. Apropos of nothing, dad would do a big stretch, yawn in exaggerated fashion, and announce to the room: ‘I am going to lie down’. And off he’d go. Five minutes later mum would quietly announce ‘I am going to lie down too’ and make her own graceful exit from the room. Then we’d hear the click of their bedroom door being locked.
What does this have to do with what I am talking about today? Very little but hopefully it’s caused any family members who might be reading to run screaming from this post, hands clapped over their ears singing la la la laaaaa.
The single thing I most disliked about my recent pregnancy was the way it interfered with intimacy.
And by intimacy I don’t just mean mummy and daddy’s special cuddles. I mean the simple act of touching the people I love.
(This is the point where my family (why are you still here?!) and friends may have a little laugh because I am famous for not being a big kisser/hugger/toucher. But I am very affectionate with the people that share a house with me.)
During this last pregnancy I got big so early my only opportunity for intimacy soon became limited to sticking my finger into the plumber’s crack my hubby exhibited whenever he bent over. While there is immense satisfaction in watching a 200cm man perfectly execute a complex jump > pirouette > death stare combination in quick succession (high five honey!), it’s not really my idea of intimacy.
My giant belly meant that the simple pleasures of spooning on the couch which watching tv, or even just an honest to god hug, were denied to me.