essay

Kiddus Interruptus

Sunday afternoon and both kids are at the playground with the sitter. I've orchestrated this hour with a wedding planner's attention to detail and timing. Bedroom shades are drawn. Playlist #3, also know as "Romantic Grown-up Music," serenades us from the iPod dock. Finally, mood established, doors locked, black thong hitched in place, I yank my husband Mark down on rumpled sheets and, in my best husky voice, whisper in his ear, "A whole hour to ourselves, baby." He responds appropriately, I think, but I can't really hear him. The doorbell is ringing.

Sometimes I see sex and parenthood as a failed Venn diagram with two side-by-side circles and none of that overlapping space known as intersection. Or inter-anything. Like now, as I roll over and reach for my jeans.

"You're answering it?" Mark asks, incredulously. He looks ready to blockade the door with the nightstand.

"You know the rule," I say, "It could be one of the kids."

"Doing what? Going AWOL from the playground?"

"I'll let you know."

There's this great song in the mediocre musical I Love You. You're Perfect. Now Change, a show Mark and I managed to catch on a rare evening out. With the children in bed, the parents - ripe for romance - rush through the chores, all the while intoning in celebratory disbelief, "I'm married and I'm gonna have sex!"

I hummed it to myself this morning as I took a languorous I'm-gettin'-some shower then shaved my legs with real shaving cream. I hummed it as I coated myself in scented oil. And I was still humming as I dredged up a black thong from another era in my life and dabbed Provocative Woman perfume on my wrist, testing that it hadn't gone off.

It hadn't and neither has Mark's and my desire for each other. I mean we could do infomercials touting the benefits of married sex (And you should see what it does for the skin!). But with two kids, who has the time for infomercials or sex? It doesn't matter that we desire each other as much as we did when we met as teenagers. Because getting to each other means meeting too many demanding conditions. First, our inquisitive, insomniac children must be out of the ranch house or sound asleep.

Second, two stressed-out self-employed parents have to be simultaneously off work and in the mood. And then we need a few acts of God.

"Who was at the door?" Mark asks as I strip off my clothes for the second time in five minutes.

"Just Franny's dad delivering Girl Scout cookies."

"We got interrupted for Thin Mints?"

"And Caramel Delites."

"What, no Peanut Butter Patties? You know I love those."

"Shut up and kiss me."

With desire, but more importantly, determination, we snuggle up again. "We're married and we're gonna have sex," I murmur in his ear between nibbles.

"We should do this more often," he muses.

Well, we should and we would but until very recently our son could not fall sleep, or stay that way, unless he was curled against one of our bodies. He was born with a horrendous eczemic condition and all the scratching messed with his sleep cycles. As a baby he was a napping disaster. As a toddler, he was an all-night wonder whirlwind that never spent a full night in his own bed. His were always the cleanest sheets in the house. The summer our daughter was born, he was at his worst. So was I. I stayed awake crying for three months.

But that's slowly shifting. He kind of sleeps now. At least he stays down until our bed starts bumping. Okay, maybe that's not what stirs him, but his timing for waking up and interrupting us is impeccable while ours for intimacy isn't. Kiddus Interruptus is just a fact of life around here, necessitating a bedroom door bolt and inspiring Superman-speed clothing changes. When my husband and I hear the dreaded pat of little feet, we go from naked to bathrobed in the blink of an eye. No phone booth necessary.

And who even cares if the kids sleep through the night? It still doesn't take into account the afternoon delight plan. It's not like we can inexplicably just go bolt ourselves in the bedroom. Also, we did not anticipate that with age, our kids also would develop a bat's radar for what's going on in the next room.

Finally, we live next to a busy public park and have a lot more visitors, by dozens, than the average home. People are always coming by to use the bathroom or score one of the Band Aids that we've taken to buying in bulk. Honestly, we like being central to the community. Except for now when the doorbell is ringing. Again.

"Your turn," I say in a not-so-sexy, singsong.

"I'm not going."

"The kids know where the hidden key is," I remind him.

While he's gone, I take the opportunity to pull a Playmobil horse out from under the pillow. I set it on the nightstand next to an empty juice box so it looks like the horse just drank the juice. Then as I await my husband's return, I hear my son's excited voice in the sun porch. "We got Thin Mints?"

And my daughter's, "And the caramel ones!"

And my husband's, "Here! Take both boxes to the playground and share them with your friends. Eat them all if you want. I don't care. Go!"

"But we want milk."

"And it's hot out there."

"What are you and Mom doing?"

"Working."

"Why is your shirt on inside out?"

I'm married and I'm going to have sex. Sometime, just not now. Maybe tonight. That's what I'm thinking as I pull on my jeans and join my family and the babysitter for cookies and milk.

Sandra Miller is an essayist who is also currently co-writing comedy scripts for 11 Central Ave, a radio comic strip that airs on National Public Radio.

~Sandra A. Miller