We have two young kids, so getting between the sheets isn’t something that happens frequently. If our toddler isn’t sleeping in our bed or our daughter isn’t clinging onto me for dear life, my husband and I are struggling to stay awake on the couch.
So making time to connect and be intimate requires planning, finding available babysitters and clearing jam-packed schedules. Spontaneity pretty much disappeared out of our sex life as quickly as the number of toothpaste stains started appearing in our sinks.
Except during one fateful night.
It was like the stars and moons aligned.
First, the kids fell asleep earlier than usual. But the most unusual thing was they passed out in the same bed, which is very odd because my daughter needs her space away from her little brother.
It was dark and rainy. My husband and I curled up on the couch, watching an episode of Sons of Anarchy. Maybe it was the gritty filming and intense violent biker gang scenes, but it set the mood for some action.
We usually sit on opposite ends of the couch so that I have space for me to stretch my legs. I slowly inched my way toward him. He was startled at first but then his expression changed to glee. We looked at each other, instinctively knowing what came next. He turned off the TV and we ran upstairs.
Dry spell dispelled.
A week later, I was changing our bedsheets when I reached behind the headboard and noticed something was stuck.
I climbed up on the bed, crouched down and looked closer. It was a condom wrapper. I grabbed it and was about to throw it in the garbage when all those years of working in retail conditioned me to check the expiry date.
In bold, white letters, I could see the date: 04/25/2019.
It had been expired for two years. I ran downstairs with my hands clenched tightly around the condom wrapper. I waved my fist, shouting, “It’s expired! It’s expired! How could this have happened?”
My husband’s confused. “What’s expired?” he asked.
I shoved the condom wrapper in his face and frantically gestured to the small printed letters. I shouted, “Two years! And we used this last week! You didn’t check the expiry date?”
My husband blinks a couple of times. “Well, it didn’t break or anything. I remember when I took it off. It should be fine.”
I shook my head and my eyes grew so big they probably could have popped out of my skull.
“The latex degrades over time. Like the rubber in your car tires and how you have to replace them regularly? You can’t see the microscopic holes where your teeny, tiny sperm can swim right through and get to my egg. I was ovulating that day!”
I wanted to scream but our son was napping upstairs and I didn’t want to wake him.
He responds jokingly, “So what now? Maybe we’ll have another kid.”
I barked, “Oh you better hope I get my period or else you’re doing everything for this baby.”
During the anxiety-inducing week of waiting for my period, my thoughts went down a rabbit hole of doom and gloom.
First, it was about being pregnant. I cannot do morning sickness, bloating, nausea, back pain, heartburn, and constipation all over again. Going to those medical appointments, getting pricked and jabbed, and peeing in cups gave me shivers down my spine.
Next, it was about giving birth. I shuddered in fear thinking about the pain of labor and recovery along with taking care of a newborn, changing diapers, waking up every hour, feeding incessantly …
Lastly, I thought about the additional financial strain and the delay to our retirement plans. The final nail in the coffin was thinking about my need for freedom. My kids are still young, but they don’t need me every single minute of every single day. My daughter can dress, feed, bathe, brush her teeth and use the bathroom all by herself. My son is not far behind.
I love my kids and they have been at the top of my mind ever since they came into my life.
However, I know I won’t need to take care of them forever. Eventually, they will become independent and I will have more time and space to myself. I did not want to sacrifice my freedom any longer. I desperately craved more spontaneous nights where my husband and I could sneak away and rekindle our romance (with unexpired condoms and a pending vasectomy, of course).
I knew I didn’t want any more kids after having my second, but going through that week of thinking about a life with a third kid completely validated my decision. When I saw that red stain on my underwear, the sigh of relief solidified that I was, in fact, done having kids. And there is a lot of relief in knowing that.
