It’s all over now, so I can write about it. I’ve been feeling like crap the past two days. Getting ready to bleed usually drags me through hell. Migraines, gloom, bursts of anger followed by tears… you know, the monthly blues. For the first time in my whole experience as a mother I asked myself why I ever decided to become one. This is a big deal. Through pregnancy, birth and the first 18 months of raising the kidling, I was solid and unwavering in my regretless absorption of responsibility and devotion. Sure, I had post partum depression like every mother out there, but I was in total denial. I refused to accept it because I did not want to resign myself into this condition. I told myself this is what I want, what I begged Jay for, and what makes me happy.

The truth is that I am much more sexually insatiable now. No amount of cock inside me can take me to the heights of euphoria I experienced at childbirth. Nothing can touch it. I wrote in the past about how the price of decadence is the eventual boredom with the mundane, and that we are doomed to keep raising the stakes in order to be satisfied. Who knew that it wasn’t decadence but something as commonplace as childbirth that would ultimately top my experience as a sexual being? How ironic.

Jay told me that witnessing my childbirth was one of the most incredible events in his life too. It was sweet to hear it from him. I had imposed fatherhood onto a man who never wanted to be one. He was a reluctant father then and now, and everyday mundane life is like a noose around his neck. I’m glad to hear that as much as fatherhood has ruined his life, it has also enriched it.

It is so much more difficult now to find the time to be together, but more than ever as parents, Jay and I have to keep our marriage vital. We cannot succumb to being mere facilitators of someone else’s life. What good are we to our baby if we are empty shells of humans performing pure function? We are artists, with desires and imagination, and we have to keep it alive to be alive.