Sex

I was warned before the birth of my children that everything would change, especially my sex life. I am proud to report that my wife and I still manage to get intimate with each other at least three times a week. Unfortunately, our weeks have changed from the traditional seven days to forty-two.

What used to be a lengthy, enjoyable foray into our physical desires has now become an all too brief race to satisfy our diminishing needs, which, I'm proud to say, I usually win. Instead of leisurely walking hand in hand through a romantic garden, pausing to smell the flowers along the way, we now sprint toward the finish line without a single hurdle impeding our progress.

We used to be adventuresome. No room in the house was sacred. No piece of furniture safe. Now, we are confined to the bedroom with the lights out and the baby monitor on. Try to be amorous when you can hear every murmur of toddlers who refuse to sleep even hours after they have been lain into their cribs. Nothing kills the mood like your son's voice suddenly shouting, "Hi!", or your daughter singing the theme song to "Elmo's World".

Nowadays, on the rare occasion that I'm home in time to actually go to bed with my wife, we both lie there thinking the same thing: I'd like to get a little, but I sure could use the rest. I never thought I'd have to choose between sex and sleep. After all, sleep follows sex like the paparazzi follow Brittany Spears. But after an entire day of being climbed on, kneed in the groin, scratched, pinched, head-butted, stood on, drooled on, bitten, and clawed by two heathen toddlers, neither one of us really wants to be touched by anything but the covers. So, we curl up into the fetal position, stick our fingers into our mouths, and feel just a little bit guilty for the fourteen or so seconds it takes for the snoring to begin. Maybe we'll have sex next week...