An Open Letter to my Daughter’s Future Therapist

It’s because I am a good and conscientious momma that Daughter 1 will be in therapy.  Let’s start from the beginning:

It’s been a LONG time since The Dad and I have been intimate.  It’s not that we don’t want to.  We do – and, of course, HE always wants to.  It’s just that parenting two high- maintenance Daughters and working and laundry and softball and standing in line ad nauseam at The Walmarts will zap any carnal urges a momma ever had!  So, when the mood strikes, ya get naked!  Ya bump uglies!

Last night, the mood struck!  Both The Dad and I were in bed, together, at the same time.  We weren’t already snoring and drooling — although I’ve assured The Dad that he shouldn’t let that stop him from gettin’ with me!    The lights were low, the windows were open, the frogs were serenading us — we just got busy!

It was between the sloppy kissin’ and the fat lady singin’ that I felt a crazy little nudge on my hiney.  Since I knew exactly where The Dad’s hands were, I should have questioned it a little, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight and it didn’t make me want to yell, “Charlie Sheen”, our safe word, so I just went with it.

Then the nudge became a bit more of a poke.  Again, not something I’m used to, but not something I felt needed to be boycotted completely.

Then the poke became full-on pressure.  It was at this point that I raised my head , opened my eyes, looked at my lover and breathlessly said,  “How are you doing that?”

“Do you like it?”  he asked, ever the casa nova.

“I think so,” I answered between nibbles on his ear, which drove him to change positions, at which time I rolled right on top of Daughter 1, who was sound asleep in our bed using my booty as her pillow.

Apparently, Daughter 1 can leave her bed, go to the bathroom, leave a line of toilet paper from the roll to the toilet, walk to our bedroom, poke and nudge her momma’s behind, then snuggle up on it without waking.  BUT, having her grunting, sweaty parents roll on top of her?  That woke our little party-crasher right up!

The Dad rolled himself off the bed and poked just his eyes above the mattress.  It was left up to me, the naked momma, to guide my child back to bed, answering questions along the way, such as, “Why were you praying so loud?”

Obviously, Daughter 1 is scarred.  That’s not in dispute here.   Obviously, it’s not because we did anything wrong, other than forgetting we had kids and got a little crazy and maybe a little loud – I’m not really sure; I wasn’t really aware of the actual volume. However, it’s because I am a good and conscientious momma that we got caught!

Hear me out:  We have a bedroom door.  We have a lock on said bedroom door.  But, I like the door to remain open so that, in case The Daughters encounter anything horrid or become sick or need me in the middle of the night, we’ll have easy access to each other.  I just never thought they’d have so much access to so much of me!

And that is why Daughter 1’s therapy isn’t really ALL my fault.

Sincerely,

Minivan Momma

Heather Davis, also known as Minivan Momma,  was born before there were such things as minivans.  When she was 16, her parents purchased one of the first minivans ever.  Imagine her giddiness at getting to drive a minivan to cruise through McGaggles as a teenager!  Luckily, she’s been able to retain that sarcasm that she perfected as a 16-year old driving a minivan!  Ten years later, she married The Dad commenced to starting a family – all the time swearing she’d never own a minivan.  Fast-forward six years and they were the proud (proud?  exhausted?  reluctant?) owners of a sparkly-new minivan!  Driving home with a toddler and newborn strapped into the middle captains chairs (complete with three cup holders each), she bawled the entire way home because by the time they got the keys, The Olive Garden was closed and she was really jonesin’ for some salad and breadsticks.  The rest, as they say, is history… or – according to The Dad – hearsay!  And you can read all about it each week at http://www.minivan-momma.com.