There is nothing sweeter in this world than to be lying in the arms of the one you love after having made hot, sweaty, freak-nasty, monkey love. The closeness and companionship you feel are unequaled. That is, until he says something stupid.
Leave it to a man to ruin the moment.
"I can't wait until we have kids of our own," he said as calmly and coolly as someone who thinks he has every right to say such a stupid thing. My body stiffened—I couldn't have heard him correctly. Maybe I had misunderstood him—I was, after all, still reeling from the Earth-shattering interlude we'd just shared. Who knew you could really have multiple O's with a man? Every time I read about the phenomenon of multiples in all those women's magazines, I was sure it was all a big, fat, hairy lie made up by men that worked for the magazines in an effort to up sales. I mean heck, alone I've only ever been able to eke out two, max, and this after much diligence and effort. And let's face it, I know what I'm doing.
I decided to clarify what I thought I'd heard before overreacting like I have in the past. Like the time he came up behind me kissing the back of my neck while I was at the sink washing the dinner dishes. I was in the middle of one of my lesbian-love-fest fantasies when he interrupted me, "What are you thinking about so intensely?" he asked, startling me from my reverie; and bringing me back from the Island of Amazon Women.
"What the?" I jumped. "Oh for Pete's sake! What are you? The freakin' dream police? Can't I have one, single, solitary thought that's all my own? Beat it!" I scolded. He left wounded and I had to make it up to him later by doing that thing he likes.
So, instead, this time, I started to laugh. "What's so funny?" he asked.
"You're not going to believe this," giggle, giggle, snort, "but I thought you said, 'I can't wait until we have kids of our own'. I must be delirious!" My hope was that by putting it that way I'd encourage him to perish even the thought. Then, I immediately started kissing his neck and nuzzling up next to him like I was ready for round two in an effort to take his mind off of what he'd said.
Let's be serious here, I already have kids of my own. Doesn't that make me some sort of bonus plan? Like, "Buy one, get two free!" Who in his right mind could pass up a deal like that? I mean, he gets two amazing kids, one of each, two weeks out of every month, who are nuts about him and best of all, they're totally self-sufficient. They are straight-A students, they are kind, obedient, respectful, loving, potty-trained and best of all, they've got their mom's dazzling personality. I ask you, does it get any better than that? And to top it all off, he doesn't have to go through nine months of sheer hell as I'm pregnant, miserable and complaining that my ass is the size of a Buick.
"Um, that's exactly what I said," he answered seriously, pushing me gently away. He sat upright in bed and turned to face me. Aw, pooh, time for a serious face-to-face conversation. I was so not in the mood for this. Perhaps it's the accumulation of heartbreak that I've experienced, but somewhere along the way I picked up a tactical man-like approach to dealing with uncomfortable relationship talk: Change the subject.
"Oh. My. God. I forgot to tell you, because no one won the 50k on the Fear Factor episode I was on, there's rumors that we will all be invited back. Can you believe that?" As I spoke I slid my hand strategically up his thigh to a place that I was sure would take his mind off of all this kid business.
He grabbed my hand and put a halt to its crusade, "That's not going to work, Sonja. Not this time." Humph! Why did it always work on me? "Look, this is serious," he continued. "We need to talk about it."
Why? It's not like we'd ever discussed the "M" word or even the idea of spending the rest of our lives together. Shouldn't we have that talk first? Of course, if you want to split hairs, we should have had all of these discussions before we entered into a sexual relationship to begin with.
As if he could read my mind he said, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." Man, maybe he is the dream police. Note to self: Stop lesbian-love-fest fantasies immediately.
Wait one cotton pickin' minute. How many times over the past six and a half years that I've been divorced and burning a hole in Las Vegas and its surrounding areas looking for Mr. Right have I longed to have Mr. Perfectly Right say those exact words to me? Only now that I'm finally hearing them, they come attached to one major stipulation: I'll marry you, if you will have my children.
I put my head on his chest and I listened intently to every word he said as he pleaded his case for having children of his own. And as I listened, I did the math: He's 45. I'm almost 38. I'd like to be married for at least a year before we had a child ... 39. Pregnant for almost another year ... 40? By then I'd have one child in middle school and one almost on his way to college. Diapers, boogers and late-night feedings all over again? It was all too much for me to take in; so I employed my second tactical man-like approach to dealing with uncomfortable relationship talk: I fell asleep.
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?