The Sex Lives of Parents

Two weeks ago at Red Rock Canyon. A far cry from Boston.

It just dawned on me that, freed from the clutches of parents.com, I can write anything I want, in any format, on any topic.

Today it goes like this: The sex lives of adults exists in such stark contrast to the childhoods of the children they are raising, tucking into bed each night, reading to from the Berenstain Bears, teaching to ride a bicycle.

The bedrooms of parents filled with tears and sweat, broken dreams, betrayal, lust, desire. Down the hall a child sleeps with a teddy bear, dreams with a pacifier, lips apart, eyes closed, arms and legs outstretched. A humidifier hums, a baby monitor one-way witness to new beginning, a lifetime yet lived, blank slate, potential, a world of possibility.

Listen to the breaths taken in and out, in and out while your wife removes her make-up, dries her tears, covers her breasts in an oversized t-shirt. While your husband brushes his teeth, lifts the toilet seat to let flow a stream of urine careful like you told him. While you find your place in the book you have been reading for over a month. While you wonder whether to kiss him first, kiss her first, touch his arm, touch her breast, touch or ask, ask or touch.

In and out, in and out, from the room down the hall, soft breathing, your own flesh and blood reborn, a second chance. You want there to be nothing in your child’s way, no thought or fear or limitation like that which stops you before touching your wife’s arm, your husband’s shoulder, from asking, touching, asking, for something you know not even what any more.

Such rain here today, like you wouldn't believe.