Chapter 3
[From Christian’s computer journal; January 10, 2015]
Henry is sick, and they don’t know what’s wrong with him. It started as a low-grade fever that wouldn’t go away, and then he became colicky, crying literally all the time, nearly every moment of every day, barely even sleeping. Which means I’m not sleeping, and Ava’s not sleeping. Ava is out of her mind with panic. Something’s wrong with him, she claims. Something serious. She knows there is, she says, she just doesn’t know what. We’ve taken him to the doctor; we’ve taken him to several doctors. He’s been X-rayed, MRI’d, CAT scanned, poked, prodded… they just can’t figure it out.
Even when Henry finally manages to fall asleep, I can’t find rest. My eyes close, my body demands rest, but my mind will not quiet. The only way I can slow or quiet myself enough to sleep is through medication, which leaves me groggy and unable to wake up, or self-medication by way of excessive amounts of scotch. I don’t care for either option, and Ava says I’m a different man when I’ve been drinking.
But without those options, I don’t sleep.
It’s four in the morning right now, and I tossed and turned from the moment I laid down at eleven until finally giving up and opening my laptop to this journal a few minutes ago.
I have the baby monitor beside me, and I can hear Henry fussing. Tossing, turning, mewling, as if he, too, cannot rest.
I’m not a praying man, but I’ve found myself begging any deity that might exist to give me Henry’s illness, to take it from him and give it to me. He’s an innocent little boy, not even a year old. He doesn’t deserve this— no one deserves this, but a baby?
I think about that, and I get angry, and I’m reminded why I’ve never been a praying man.
Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. There is no justice.
I know this is ridiculous and selfish and petty and horrible, which is why the only place I’ll ever voice this complaint is here, in this digital journal, but…
Ava and I haven’t had sex in months. Since before Henry was born. I know, I know— she gave birth, she needed to heal. No problem. But then once she got the okay from Dr. Gupta, she didn’t feel ready. She still had the baby weight, she said, and she felt like she looked like roast beef down there— her words, not mine— and didn’t want me anywhere near it. And then Henry started crying all the time, and that’s taken all of our time and energy, and now she’s too panicked and exhausted and stressed to even think about intimacy.
And I know I shouldn’t be thinking about that, but I can’t help it. I need that intimacy with her. Yes, I also need the physical release and relief, but it’s more than that. It’s the connection. The closeness we find, especially in the afterglow.
God, I feel like such an asshole, but the need for her is yet another stone on the pile weighing me down. And I dare not say anything to her. Dare not make a move. It would hurt too much to be rejected yet again, and would only upset her more than she already is. I know she doesn’t mean it as a rejection of me, per se, but that’s still how it feels.
Now more than ever we need each other, yet… I feel us drifting further and further apart.
Chapter 4
[From Ava’s blog: Confessions of Working Mommy;
January 20, 2015]
Let’s talk about sex.
Ha, now you’ve got that song stuck in your head.
But for real, I’ve got some dirty thoughts I need to muse on, and you naughty vixens out there seem to enjoy getting glimpses into the inner workings of my fucked-up mind, for some reason, and so you’re going to be my sounding board.
Henry was born seven months ago. The last time I had marital intercourse with my husband was exactly twenty-four days before that; I know the exact date only because I blogged about it (which you can find here). So, it has been eight months since I last had sex.
Eight months without any nookie whatsoever.
Ya’ll.
That’s not okay.
NOT OKAY. Mama needs her nookie, all right?
I mean, yeah, the first three months or so are understandable: I had just pushed a human being out of my vagina, and Henry was not a small baby, at nine pounds six ounces. So yeah, six to nine weeks of recovery for poor Ava St. Pierre’s hoo-ha is to be expected.
And then… and then…? Nobody tells you about the hemorrhoids, nor what I’ve been calling the Arby’s poon— which is when your lady bits rather closely resemble a sandwich from the aforementioned purveyor of meat-like-substance imitation sandwiches. Yeah, I’d like to have learned about that shit in the My Baby and Me class. Screw Lamaze, let’s talk about roast beef pussy. Yeah, sure, of course Chris told me I looked totally normal and was more beautiful than ever; he had to say that because he knew I’d kill him—
The other thing nobody talks about is that your hormones don’t go back to normal right away either. I mean, yeah, you hear all about how you’ll be hormonal during pregnancy, and you’ll have weird cravings and alternate between loving your hubby more than ever and wanting to strangle him with his shoelaces— which you couldn’t reach because hello, you’re pregnant. Do you ever hear about still feeling like an unhinged lunatic months after the baby is born? NOOOOOO. I didn’t, at least. Yeah, they talk about postpartum depression, but what about postpartum homicidal rage because you’re not getting laid? What about feeling stabby because your baby is three months old and you haven’t had wine or coffee in almost a fucking year, and now they’re telling you that you STILL can’t have it because you’re breastfeeding?
Switching Henry to formula so I can have wine and coffee would make me a horrible mother, wouldn’t it? Yes, I know I can have beer while I’m breastfeeding because of something to do with lactation or something, but honestly, beer? Probz not, folks.
But I digress.
Sex.
Which I’m not having.
Why?
Because I’m still twenty pounds away from my post-baby goal weight, and it seems like a goal I’ll never reach because Henry is colicky and difficult and I think he’s sick but they can’t find anything wrong with him. But I’m his mama, dammit, and I know he’s sick. I’ve been around colicky babies before. My sister’s son, my nephew Alex, now he was a super colicky baby. He was just cranky all the time, and hated life and hated being put down and hated being hungry and hated being wet and REALLY hated being poopy, and guess what he was all the time? Hungry, wet, and poopy. That was colic. He grew out of it, turned into the sweetest, cutest, happiest little walking, talking kid you could ask for.
This, with Henry? It’s not colic.
There’s something wrong, and nobody knows what.
So that’s not helping the get-Ava-laid program.
Also not helping is the fact that Christian is under deadline and took two months off from writing to help me with Henry and take care of me. God bless the man, he did so much in those two months, and I don’t know how any woman has ever survived those months without my Chris, because he made me breakfast in bed, brought me endless mugs of herbal tea, brought me snacks, held Henry so I could sleep, changed diapers, went to Walgreens whenever I ran out of Tuck’s pads AND brought back chocolate. He had pizza and the Thai place on speed dial, and could get in and out with our order in less than ten minutes, so I wouldn’t be alone with Henry for too long while I was still so sore I could barely walk.
Yeah, they also don’t tell you about that. Giving birth hurts— that’s not news; what’s news is that it continues to hurt for weeks and weeks afterward.
So yeah, Christian was an actual angel from heaven, and now he’s got sixty thousand words due in six weeks and did I mention that Henry cries ALL… THE… TIME? Poor man isn’t sleeping, and he’s still trying to be there for my every want and need, and he’s got insane stress from the due date.
The only thing he can’t do for me is make me capable of sex.
See, that’s the issue. I WANT sex. I NEED sex.
My man and I have wicked powerful chemistry, okay? I’ve blogged about this before (here and here). Chris and I? We’re, like, world champions at sex.
But… my body is all like NO, AVA, NO SEX FOR YOU and my mind is like FUCK YOU, BODY, GET WITH THE PROGRAM! RIDE THAT DICK! And my heart is like I just want intimacy. I want him to whisper sweet nothings and tell me how beautiful I am and kiss me and make me feel desired and needed.
And I’m freaking out about Henry. Freaking out seriously hardcore, and that’s just shut down my mojo completely.
Even worse is, I know Chris is feeling it too. He needs it as much as I do, if not more so simply because he’s a dude and dudes require crazy amounts of sex to function. My point is, he needs me. He needs us.
And I can’t give it to him.
I wonder if he ever reads my blog?
If you’re reading this, Christian, then please know it’s not you. I love you more than ever and want you more than ever, but I just… can’t. And I feel horrible about it, and I’m sorry.
Who am I kidding? Christian’s never read my blog, and never will. Not because he doesn’t care— he does, and he supports me, so don’t get the wrong idea, here. I don’t know, though. Don’t let my pithy blog style fool you, dear readers: I’m a damned mess right now.
