My Own American Pie Moment

If you are one of my two brothers, my mom or my dad, or anybody else who has a vested interest in never, ever thinking of me as a sexual person, I strongly urge you to stop reading. Immediately. Because I'm about to tell a story about being walked in on while, well, you know.

I'm not even sure why I feel so compelled to write this story. What happened today is now in my Top Ten Most Awkward and Uncomfortable Moments List, along with #2) missing a very dramatic key change during a solo in front of the entire student body of my college, and #6) talking shit about my ex's new girlfriend who, I later found out, happened to be sitting right behind me catching every word. I suppose I am hoping that telling you my gutwrenchingly shameful story will get me to the point where it is funny instead of painful, because right now it's just painful. Really, really painful.

Okay. So here goes. (Deep breath). My friends (who will remain anonymous for reasons you will soon understand) offered to watch Jack for me overnight, a gift that is so overwhelmingly kind that I feel like I should turn my life over to them with the same kind of devotion that Christians turn their lives over to Jesus. In fact, I think I could be a devotee to a guru/teacher/prophet who provided free childcare and occasionally bought me coke slurpees. But I digress.

So, on this childless day after a childless night, I experienced two things that I have not had since before I became a mom. One of these was a full night's sleep followed by a morning of sleeping in. Glorious. The other was an orgasm. Also, although I shouldn't have to say it, glorious.

Now let me preface all of this by letting you know that, since Jack was conceived, I have had as much interest in having sex as I have had in learning about cold fusion. That is to say, I have none. I'm just not interested. Let's put it this way: Sex used to be like NBC or some other major network channel on my internal TV. Since pregnancy, it's been relegated to some channel in the high seventies, like the Home Shopping Network or CSPAN, channels I just flip right through while surfing. I didn't even experience the crazy sex dreams and heightened sex drive that all of the pregnancy books talk about and post-partum mothers literally get dizzy over while recalling them ("And there was this one with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie..."). And when I say that I have not had any interest in sex, I'm not just talking about having sex with someone else. I have not had sex - any sex - in over two years.

When I tell people this, they usually seem very shocked (note: What? Do you think I'm a hussy?) and worried, like I've just told them I've been diagnosed with cancer. They try to cover their concern, saying things like, "Oh, that's normal. My sex drive took ages to come back, too." While surrounded by her children who are 11 months apart. Or I love it when my non-parent friends chime in on the make-Amber-feel-okay-campaign. It usually goes like this:

Me: I haven't had sex since Jack was conceived.

Them, trying to minimize their surprise, which is hard when one sprays soda out of one's mouth: Really? But isn't that, like, normal? I mean, you just had a baby.

Me: A year and a half ago.

Them: Oh, right. But you're single. It's not like you have a boyfriend or a husband to have sex with...

Me: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?

So, today, when I suddenly and out of nowhere felt, well..., interested, I abandoned all other plans for organizing my kitchen cupboards and quickly drew a bath. I glanced at the clock and realized that I didn't know when my nameless friends would be coming by to drop Jack off (umm, no pun intended). Wanting to time things correctly, I game them a call and learned that I had about 45 minutes before they would come over - plenty of time! I told them that I was hopping in the shower and would see them when they got here.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that it was what you might imagine it would be like if you had not had sex for over two years. And let's just say that I let my feelings out about how great this all was quite vocally. Loudly, actually. Like, think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Several times.

Okay, so I get out of the shower and am drying off when-

"Uh, Amber, we're in your house." It's my nameless friend. She pops her head inside my bedroom door, which is now closed but wasn't before I took my shower. Which means that she closed it. "We just didn't want you to freak out."

It's too late. I am freaking out. I felt like I had been caught with my hand inside the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was, well... never mind. "Oh, hey. How did you guys get in here?" I didn't ask the obvious question: Did you just hear me fucking myself?

My friend is not making eye contact with me. She is trying very hard to act interested in the carpet. Thoughts are racing through my mind as I try to assess the situation. Maybe they didn't hear me. Maybe they stayed out in the kitchen area, far away from the bathroom. Maybe they just got here. But all is shattered when she says,"Oh, I had to break in. Through your bedroom window."

Which, my beloved internet friends, is right next to my bathroom. I mean, we're talking the same room. She had been, at the most, five feet away from me.

"I'm sorry I had to break in. I really had to use your bathroom or we would have just waited outside until you were done..., er, with your shower."

There is no way to recover from this. Trust me, I have thought and thought and thought about this all day, and the only response to what was happening at that moment was to simply pretend that everything was normal. Except that I couldn't. I felt like there was no air in the room. I couldn't speak, couldn't make a coherent sentence, couldn't say something interesting or witty or clever to camouflage what was really going on. I felt like I had just been..., well, caught having sex with myself. I mean, that pretty much explains it.

"Alright, well..., I'll be out in a minute," I said. As I got dressed, every sound, every moan and groan (seriously, I really hope my brothers aren't reading this) came flooding back into my memory, each one nearly sending my out my bedroom window and down the street, never to speak to my friends again. I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room to find my nameless friend's husband, sitting at my table with his head down on his arms. As if to stifle the pain.

I felt naked. "Hi," I attempted.

"Hey Amber," he said, lifting his head but not looking at me. His wife was outside, smoking a cigarette. I wanted to have one, too, but knew I couldn't enjoy it. I stood there, not sure what to do or say or where to go and then- savior of all saviors, Jack came bounding into the room, providing a burst of fresh, non-sexualized air into the room. Man, was it good to see him.

"Jack!" I cried. My friend came inside and the conversation shifted around Jack... the time of his last poopy, how well he did at the grocery store, how much he ate at breakfast. It was a nice diversion.

My nameless friends left quickly, and without much ado. It was as if we all just wanted to get out of my house, get out of the awkwardness and get on with the business of forgetting all about this horrible afternoon. I'm not sure I will ever know if they were privy to the end of my dry spell, and quite frankly I don't think I want to know. I'm quite content with keeping up the pretense of normalcy. Hell, I've been doing it my entire life.

And if you're reading this, my nameless friend, please pretend that you didn't. Just say something like, "Well, I haven't had a chance to read your blog in a really long time." We can just keep pretending that nothing happened. Really.