I am a desperate mother.
Desperate for more patience, more time, more money, more help. I have three children and two step children ages five, six, seven, eight and nine. They are all female except for the second youngest (Jack) who is the crashingest, boomingest, bangingest boy around. The girls are wonderful. They are wonderfully emotional, wonderfully talkative, and wonderfully reliant on attention.
My house is typically insane. It is my favorite thing in the world, next to coffee, and much like coffee when I have a little to much I feel like I might have a heart attack. This is why it did not take long for me to seek advice from other mothers online and in life.
There was good advice to be had.
The basic theme being to breathe, to take it easy on yourself, to live in ‘the moment’ and understand that someday you will miss the poo smear on the staircase and the moldy granola in your truck. I tried to, but struggled knowing how to get from point a (being the urge to day drink), to point b (being the enlightened mom giggling at the child wearing permanent marker lipstick). I sought out answers, but all I found was more frustration. ‘Breathe deeply’ or ‘count to 10’ provoked the same reaction from me as when my husband tells me to calm down: volcanic opposition to the suggestion. I could not figure it out.
I am a yoga instructor, schooled on the breath, practiced at pranayama, but its near impossible to get zen ready when life is moving fast and there is no place to find your breath (I am not saying impossible, just hard). I needed an access point. Then one day I found it.
The access point was found thanks to my gushing rushing 30 year old woman hormone surge that makes women feel like the sexual equivalent of an 18 year old boy: I masturbated.
My kids were fighting downstairs. I closed my bedroom door and had no expectation of something romantic; I had a quickie with myself and went down and did homework. It was great. Birds were chirping, kids were smiling, I was cooking, and multiplying, and skipping around like Cinderella.
Soon I was using sex to get me through all kinds of things. I would be grocery shopping thinking about my husband pulling my hair.
I would be waiting outside the elementary school making awkward conversation with other mothers imagining the oral sex I would be having later that day. I would start to lose my temper after school and retreat to my room for a five minute mountain mover that kept me on my feet.
It all began to make sense. Women are their most fertile in their 20s, but they are at their ripest, most open, most ready in their 30’s. Why? Because we need to use that sexuality to preserve who we are as women while we have the chaos of children saturating our lives.
Because sex is a powerful tonic, and feeling sexy is like taking a positivity steroid. It makes you a better mom; it makes you a happy Mom.
What is sad is that nobody is saying this! Nobody is talking about how sex is a better mothering tool than a dishwasher (or at least a close second to a dishwasher).
It’s strange because we become mothers by opening our legs, but then are expected to seal them shut. Why? Because mothers are supposed to be pure and virtuous?
There is more virtue in an orgasm than a lie, and unless you plan on living in celibacy, sexuality should be embraced, rejoiced and used to keep your heart rate level during temper tantrums.
Masturbate, Mama! Masturbate!
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