Sexy-Time

This morning, while Tim was drying off from his shower, I popped into the bathroom to tell him something that I had forgotten to mention yesterday.


“There’s going to be a baby shower in town for Max and Bob in July,” I said.


“OK,” he replied. “I’m not going to that one either.”


I looked at him confused. “What? Why not?”


“I’m just not a baby shower guy,” he said.


“What’s that mean?” I asked. “Why you bein’ such a hater?”


“I’m not being a hater. I just don’t want to go to a baby shower. You know, I’ll love on you, your belly and this baby once it gets here, but honestly, I’m just kind of done. I’m ready to go back to OUR lives, without this baby in between us. It feels like it’s been going on and on forever.”


I knew exactly what he meant and I do agree. It has been a long time. I can’t expect him to be excited about a baby shower, really. He’s excited to be my boyfriend again. Not to say that he isn’t now, of course, but to say this surrogacy has changed the dynamic of our relationship is a grave understatement.


My hormonal, emotional lunacy has made for a less than perfect experience for the both of us, but one that is at least comical at times (in the midst of the crying and the pouting and the moaning and the groaning).


Take last week, for instance. Now, before all this surrogacy stuff started, we had a very enviable intimate life. I seriously dig my guy and our physical connection has always been very strong. In fact, before going into this pregnancy, I warned him, “Listen babe, you gotta understand. Pregnant ladies are crazy horny, so this whole thing might really benefit you, too. You might be challenged to keep up with me.”


I used that logic to help entice him to get on board with the surrogacy. It was more of an offering of “icing on the sex cake.” During the second round of invitro, after it had worked finally, I remember about four months into this pregnancy when he asked timidly and curiously, “So when does that horny time kick in, again?”


“Oh, it’s coming!” I said, not having the heart to tell him that the customary time had already come and gone with the first trimester. My body was so jacked up and pumped full of synthetic hormones during that time, that the LAST thing I wanted to do was have the boom-boom.


Now, in the second trimester, I had to muster up some desire. It has NOTHING to do with him. I love my big sexy fella and can’t keep my hands off of him. I just don’t love my big, floppy body and my kankles. It’s hard to feel desirable when I look like Humpty Dumpty. And, I can no longer see my own vuh-jayjay over my belly. I tried shaving it blindly, just soaping it up and running a razor around where I thought it might need a little tidying up, but upon exiting the shower and viewing my handiwork reflected in the mirror, it looked like a pubic patchwork mess.


“Whatcha got goin’ on down there?” Tim asked as I walked into our room and asked for a pair of his boxers; my night-clothes of choice.


“I can’t see what I’m doing,” I replied. “I tried.”


“Why don’t you just let it grow out all 70s style and furry?” he asked.


“And why don’t I tattoo, ‘I give up’ on my forehead, too, while I’m at it?” I replied. “I could just go all Grizzly Adams and grow the shit out and it would be fine with you?”


“Wouldn’t bug me a bit,” he said sincerely, but which I heard as, “I’m not goin’ near there for a while anyway, so it makes no difference to me.”


Before surrogacy, we were like rabbits. But, then came the shots and the patches and the mood swings and the “Don’t touch my butt, it kills!” This eased us into the dry spell that I agreed to as part of my deal with Max and Bob.


Prior to transferring the embryos, Tim and I were on “contractual sexual restriction” and our liquid and free flowing sex life became the Sahara Desert. I signed a contract stating that I would refrain from intercourse during the drug prep prior to transfer. I can admit now that there is a baby in my belly that we kind-of let things fly between cycles when I was on the pill. While we were extra cautious and there was extremely little to no chance of us conceiving from our liaisons, I told Max and Bob that if, by chance, their baby came out a one-armed, hair-lip (Tim has a cleft lip) to gratefully count their blessings and take it without asking any questions.


So, last week, one night before climbing into bed, I looked at Tim and I said, “Tonight, we are having the sexy-time!”


He said, “But babe, I’m worried I might hurt that little girl in there. She’s just all cozy and comfy. I don’t want to hurt her or upset her.”


“Babe, though you are blessed with “manhood,” this baby won’t feel a thing. Trust me, we’re good. We can do this! C’mon!” I said.


He looked at me hesitantly and a little bit disbelieving and climbed into bed. Nowadays, when I get into bed and lay on my back, my body kind of spreads out everywhere. My boobs slide off my chest like giant melting scoops of vanilla ice cream and flop to the polar opposite sides of my ribcage. My belly and my butt kind of melt into one giant flesh pillow and I take up far too much space on my side of the bed. I’m propped with pillows between my legs and under my back while I sleep, and I try very hard to keep my feet elevated because most mornings, I wake up swollen like a puffer fish.


Tim put his hand on my side and kind of cupped my right boob in his palm. “Wow,” he said, as he adjusted the covers and slid in next to me. “Now I know what these things are really for.”


“I know,” I replied looking down at my flesh spilling over his large hand. “Pretty soon they’ll probably start filling up and maybe even leaking milk occasionally.”


I looked up at him and the expression on his face was one of sheer horror. He looked like a person who had just witnessed someone throwing up on a street corner – a shocked look of disgust, tinged with a little sorrow.


I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. The explosive force of my laugh, coupled with the bean and chicken enchiladas I’d devoured for dinner, caused an explosion between my legs under the sheets; a ferocious fart so loud that the dog jumped. Tim’s head snapped back, as if the fart had sent shrapnel flying and he winced and grimaced then looked at me with bewildered disbelief. I was laughing even harder now, at my fart and at the new look on his face; the one that said, “Is this really happening?” He plastered this look of confused amazement over his face and asked, “Honestly?”


I was hysterical. I couldn’t stop laughing and I couldn’t answer. I was laughing and saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” between my howling guffaws and gasps for air. The fact that he wasn’t laughing made the scene even more hilarious. The pressure was mounting. I was laughing too hard and Tim was worriedly backing up, the way one might when they’ve realized they’ve gotten too close to a ticking time bomb.


And then it happened. I felt the trickle of warmth spreading under my legs and I knew I couldn’t shut it off. I surrendered and just let it flow. There was nothing I could do. It would be like trying to stop the flow of the Colombia if Grand Coulee just gave way. I flipped back the covers and Tim cried, “What’s that? Did you pee the sheets?”


Now, lying in my own pool of piss, trying to roll my fat ass out of bed, I started to cry. It was a mixture of crying and laughing and sniffling and choking for air between sobs and bursts of hysterical laughter. I gave up and lay there on my side, trying to wiggle and squirm to get my legs over the edge of the bed so I could push myself up. I was one hot mess.


“Yeah huh huh hu,” I cried. “I think that’s pee.”


He sprang out of the bed and stood naked by his nightstand, looking at me with confusion and shock.


I rolled off the mattress and began ripping the sheets off the bed between sobs and he asked, “Are you crying or laughing?”


“Yeah huh huh hu,” I said. I was so embarrassed and humiliated and at the same time I thought it was insanely funny. The look of anguish on his face, not because he was upset with me, but because he had no idea how to deal with the situation, was priceless. I curled up in a ball of pathetic tears and laughter.


He came around my side of the bed and said, “Ohhhh, it’s OK Baby. Your body is just going through some stuff.” He put his arms around me, helped me to my feet and I smeared my snotty, tear streaked face in his chest. He patted the back of my head while I cried and laughed and laughed and cried.


“But,” I cried even harder, “You’re (sob) not (sob) going to (sob) forget this (sob, sob sob).


He held my head close to his chest while petting my hair and said, sort of chuckling, “I’m going to try, REALLY HARD, Babe.”


We stripped the sheets, I took a shower, he turned on the TV, and I sniffled and wept my way to sleep on his arm. So much for sexy-time.


I’m not a girl who gives up easily, though. I gave him a few days to forget, before putting on the charm at bedtime again.


“K, Babe. Tonight, we’re gonna get it right and I’m not going to pee the bed. Promise.”


“Alright,” he said suspiciously, as he headed for the shower. I had already showered and was waiting for him. Impatiently.


When I heard the water stop, I went into the bathroom to encourage him to hurry it along. Sometimes, I can admit, my efforts to get things rolling on my timeline can be irritating. You put both of us in our tiny bathroom and there is little room to move, much less dry off with a towel, brush teeth, etc. I was trying to hurry him up, while slowing him down at the same time. This is on par with the walking contradiction that is currently “Me.”


He was trying to finish up when I joined him in the cramped quarters because I just had to spritz my face with antioxidant mist right at that moment. “I’m waaaaitining for you to come out there with me, Baby,” I sang. “Hurry, hurry. I got the good stuff,” I said as I flaunted Humpty Dumpty bod.


“I’ll be out after I brush my teeth, Babe,” he said.


I poked at him a little bit, which I love to do. He flinched and tried to avoid my pestering. While he hates it when I poke and tickle on him, I find it wildly amusing.


“Stop!” he said.


“Awwww. C’mon big boy! Don’t be so sour,” I said sweetly. Then, naturally, I sprayed some antioxidant mist on his face and he quickly closed his eyes and crumpled up his forehead in disgust.


“That’s totally annoying, Carrie,” he said sharply.


I set my mister bottle on the counter, shot him a broken, defeated look, hunched my shoulders forward and hung my head and pouted my way into bed. A few minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, but my party was over. I didn’t look at him as he slid into bed.


“OK,” he said. “I’m ready.”


“I don’t want to anymore,” I said. “You yelled at me and called me annoying and hurt my feelings.”


“I didn’t call you annoying,” he replied. I said, “That’s annoying.”


“Yeah, maybe, but you said my name!” I said. “I don’t like it when you say my name. It sounds like you’re scolding me and like you’re mad at me and it sounds mean.”


And for God’s sake, I started to cry AGAIN. The absurdity of what I was saying and the fact that I was crying made me start laughing and we were in the middle of laugh / cry mania again.


“Careful,” he said looking down at the lower half of my body.


“God, Babe. What the hell is the matter with me?” I sniffled, wiping away my tears.


“You’re pregnant, Babe,” he said. “You’re going to be OK. It’s almost over. I love you.”


Earlier that day, we had been sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table working on our computers while the Oprah Show played on the TV in the family room. He typed away, focusing diligently on his work before him, while I kept getting distracted with Oprah’s interview.


She was interviewing John Edwards’ mistress. I was captivated with the story of how a man with a seemingly great future, running for president of the United States, could get involved in such a scandal; particularly when his supportive wife, Elizabeth was battling cancer. “What a dick,” I said out loud.


“What?” Tim said, looking up from his computer.


“John Edwards. He’s such a dick.”


“Oh. Yeah,” he replied.


I was unimpressed with his response, as I was hoping for a little more passionate support for my sentiments. He had already gone back to working on his laptop.


He must have felt my piercing gaze. He looked up sheepishly from behind his monitor. “What?” he said.


“I don’t know,” I replied. “I think I’m pissed at you right now.”

“Because John Edwards cheated on his wife?” he asked.


“I think so,” I said


“Because I’m a man?” he asked.


“That’s part of it, I guess. And, because Jesse James cheated on Sandra Bullock. What an asshole! I think that’s making me a little mad at you right now, too.”


“OK. I’m sorry,” he said dryly and went back to work.


“I just need a little time to process through this,” I said. “I’m just pissed at you.”


“Understood,” he said. Ten quiet minutes passed while he tap-tapped on his keyboard and I listened to Oprah. I broke the silence with a thoughtful remark.


“I’ll cut your penis off if you pull a John Edwards,” I said seriously. “Are we clear?”


“Yep,” he said. “You wanna go out for dinner?”


I got over being mad at him with the thought of a delicious dinner out. Food is such a yummy distraction. “I think I do, yes.”


“Wanna go for dessert, too? Maybe find some coconut cake?” he said.


And, with that, he’s off the hook for John Edwards’s and Jesse James’s transgressions. I no longer was considering the method I would use to amputate his unit. I was focused on where to fill my belly and where to get dessert.


“Baby?” I say looking up at him in our bed later that night after he assured me that this pregnancy craziness is almost over. “You’re a good man.”


“You’re a good lady,” he said and kissed me on the forehead.


I curl into him and all is wonderful in the world again.


And, as an added bonus, the sheets are still dry.