Out of all the posts I’ve ever written – this one right here – ranks right up there with the most difficult. Seriously. Typing the words out is almost as hard as speaking them…which I also had to do and would have rather filled my ear with honey and laid on an ant hill.
This sucks pink plaid donkey balls. Gigantic NEON pink balls.
Remember a long time ago when I blogged about “shutting the door” during “dessert” between a couple so that curious little children didn’t interrupt you? And remember how I said my children are the spawn of Satan and just forget to knock and barge in even when I remember to shut the door? And I asked how you guys dealt with such things? And it was funny – ha ha – let’s all discuss this little thing in life that happens to us all.
Well – for me – it ain’t funny - any more.
It stopped being funny when it REALLY happened. Like big time.
Let’s rewind a bit so you can all be mortified with me, mmkkaayy?
The family goes to bed. Let it be known that my kids are fast faller-asleepers. Like within minutes usually. So they go to bed. Rambo and I go to bed. We have a discussion. For probably a good 20 minutes. We then decide it’s a good time for the horizontal mombo. Quietly.
Now mind you – where we live it was windier than hell outside. I mean sometimes the house, windows and doors would make noise and at no point was the wind silent. Also – let it be known that our bedroom has one full room in between it before you get to our girl’s rooms. We are tucked back in the “west wing” as I like to call it.
And did I mention we were being quiet? Like “our kids may still be awake” quiet – not “I’m a porn star so the louder the better” quiet.
Things are going well.
I suddenly hear footsteps. Loud, pissed off footsteps.
What the what?
It’s not a normal thing to go from bliss and oblivion to sheer mortified dread and panic within the span of one second - when it finally registers in your brain that YES - you DID indeed hear footsteps.
Both Rambo and I hit the deck…I mean the bed. Face plant at lightening speed.
Just as my child storms into our bedroom and says in her most aggravated voice, “Do you want me to close the bedroom door because I can hear you out here.”
And me being the ever truthful, mother of the year says, “Hear what?”
She repeats herself. “Do you want me to close the bedroom door because I can hear what you are doing in here.”
I am still confused. I’m still reluctantly leaving paradise island and running smack into parenting hell.
I reply, “I don’t know what you are talking about. We aren’t doing anything.”
Clearly I’m not going to get any help from Rambo. He’s still face down in the bed. I have no idea if he’s even alive.
She turns on her foot. Huffs. And walks out – and SLAMS the door behind her.
I feel like a 15 year old who just caught by my priest doing the pool boy – standing naked – and saying “what – I didn’t do anything”. This so isn’t how it looks.
Even though we all know it certainly is.
Thank every God imaginable that our room is pitch black and I could not see her face and she couldn’t see us.
With the door slammed shut it’s even more pitch black. And silent.
Finally I say, “What do we do now?” Rambo says he doesn’t know. (oh look – he is alive!)
I say, “Hmmm – that’s quite the mood killer, isn’t it?” Rambo says, “My God – was she sitting outside the door? We were so quiet.”
He then says, “This sucks. I want a do over.”
To which I reply, “You can finish if you want” - knowing with everything in me there’s no way that’s ever gonna happen.
He says, “Um, I did. I mean I was – right as we both dove headfirst into the bed. Um, we’re going to need to wash the sheets.”
Oh. Hmmm…well that’s good – I guess. Do I have to go talk to our daughter?
He replies, “Yah – I think you better.”
Dammit – I knew that’s what he’d say. Also – let’s just note the large difference between a man and a woman’s thinking here. I’m thinking “I’ve just scarred our child for life” and he’s thinking “damn – I need a do over – that didn’t go like I planned.”
So I go in her room and of course – she’s reverted back to being a child and has her head completely covered in a blanket and can’t even bear to look at me and yells “get away from me” – like I’m Bigfoot. Ugh. Is this the same kid that just barged into my room to state her position?
I do the whole, “I apologize. I thought you were asleep. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
And in one of my best, shining moments – I decide to put a positive spin on the debacle of a shitstorm that just happened by saying, “Aren’t you glad you have parents who make love instead of ones who don’t or fight all the time?”
What the what? This is not a cup half full situation. No matter how you look at it – what just happened sucks.
The next day in the daylight I talked to her some more. She of course, still looks at me like I’m Shrek’s first cousin and I explain that no matter what she heard – no one was hurt. I tell her as a kid when I heard my parents that’s what I thought – but it’s not the case. I told her moms and dads have sex. It may seem gross to her but it’s what they do. I told her it SHOULD seem gross to her…because she’s a child.
I told her although I wish this hadn’t happened – that I’m not embarrassed because there’s nothing wrong with her dad and I doing what we did. We’re married and in love and it’s okay. And I swore no matter what – doors will be shut now and I apologized again. I told her nothing has changed. We still love her – she still loves us – we’re all very happy. Let’s move on and if she ever has any questions I will answer them.
I ended by asking if she was alright and if there was anything she wanted to say to me.
Do you know what she said? With her red, puffy, embarrassed eyes?
She said, “I want to do more of this. This – just you and me talking together.”
I guess my lesson learned here is – even if the subject is mortifying – she still needs and wants more of me. And that’s a good thing.
The night before – after I briefly talked to her right after IT happened – I went back to bed. Rambo and I laid there in the pitch black. Silence. Staring at the ceiling. Wanting desperately to rewind and undo the horror of our embarrassment. For a good couple minutes.
And then Rambo broke the weird silence. Do you want to know what that dickhead said to me?
“Well, at least you have something to blog about tomorrow.”
He is a mother heifer if I ever knew one.
I’d also like it documented that my best friend took it upon herself to laugh hysterically when I told her this story.
I hate them both.
Not as much as I hate nose-diving mid-orgasm….but they rank right up there.