The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  Kate disentangled her limbs then folded them into a different position as effortlessly as a bit actor from Wallace & Gromit.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve still got a skeletal system or have you done a Cher and had bits of it removed?’ I asked. I could honestly say that in my whole life, despite numerous experiences involving alcohol and imaginative sex, the back of my head had never come into contact with my ankle.

  She laughed. ‘This one is great for the pelvis and the sex life,’ she said. ‘Do you know that scientists reckon that a woman has seven G-spots?’

  ‘Yeah, well you’d better call out some Sherpas and a tracker dog cos six of mine are missing.’

  The front door slammed and Carol breezed in, all copper tendrils, size-eight hipsters and shopping bags.

  ‘Jesus, it’d freeze the balls off a brass gorilla out there,’ she said, shivering for effect. She’d never been very good with metaphors. She gave me a hug, then looked at Kate.

  ‘I know I’ll regret asking, but what are you doing?’

  ‘Counting her G-spots,’ I interjected.

  Carol looked puzzled. ‘Why the plural? I thought we only had one?’

  Thank you!

  ‘Nope, according to some anthropologist expert we’ve got seven,’ said Kate. Although how she could talk when she was staring her privates in the face was beyond me.

  Carol giggled. ‘Oh, well there’s something for Cal to look for later then,’ she announced.

  I made a very immature teenager, grossed-out face à la Hollyoaks, circa 2001.

  ‘Carol, we have laws! I’ve told you before–do not talk to me about your sex life with your husband. Due to the fact that he’s also my brother, it gives me mental images that will eventually lead to a psychiatrist’s couch or an appearance on a daytime talk show. Anyway, let’s not talk about sex because my memory is in no mood to be tested this morning.’

  Sad, but true. I couldn’t remember when I’d last had one of those ‘alcohol and imaginative sex’ encounters. Don’t get me wrong, Mark and I could do that whole jungle hot and heavy thing. Once upon a time.

  The first time I had sex with him I was still a teenager and the earth moved. And not just because we were in a standing position and I was wearing platforms the size of Mini Metros. We had an on-off thing all through the hormonal teenage years, and then lost touch until years later, when we bumped into each other at Cal and Carol’s wedding. Actually, that’s a lie. We didn’t exactly bump into each other. For reasons that I’ll summon up the courage and the accompanying mortification to reveal later, I had stormed off in a flurry of embarrassment, tears and snot, only for Mark to appear out of the blue and rescue me.

  Within months we were married and it would have been impossible for me to be happier. Life was bliss. On weekends we’d climb into bed on Friday nights and stay there until Sunday, getting up only to shower, answer the door to the pizza delivery guy and change the batteries on the TV remote control. I couldn’t believe my luck–Mark Barwick, the gorgeous, smart, funny, laidback sweetheart of a guy, who had been bailing me out of trouble since before puberty, had actually taken me on. I should probably add ‘brave’ to that list. And not only that but he shagged me silly from dawn till dusk and seemed to enjoy it. Who needed yoga?

  My wedding present to Mark had been to throw out every method of contraceptive I possessed. Foolishly, I flushed ten packets of pills, fourteen condoms and a diaphragm down the toilet. It kept a plumber in business for weeks.

  But we were soon to hit a blockage of a different kind.

  Six months of lost weekends later we were surprised that I wasn’t pregnant. A year passed and we were verging on astonished. Another eighteen months on and we were seriously worried. And two years after that we discovered that I had polycystic ovaries. And that was before they were trendy. Now everyone’s got them. They’ve become one of the barometers of modern-day chic. Everyone who’s anyone has had a boob job, Botox, goes to Barbados in the winter, South of France in the summer, is on the waiting list for the new Chloe bag, shops in Harvey Nicks and has polycystic ovaries. Even Victoria bloody Beckham has them. Oh, the irony. I had to have one thing in common with that incredibly thin, jet-setting, millionaire, diamond-laden, David-Beckham-shagging woman, and it’s the fact that our ovaries don’t work properly. And to add insult to injury, despite the dodgy ovaries she’s still managed to shoot out three kids. Although calling them after a bridge, a missile and a bloke with a fondness for balconies was a bit harsh.

  However, in my case, the whole reproductive thing seemed to be on strike.

  For Mark and I that meant sex became a battle to conceive rather than an enjoyable pastime to while away the hours between a Friday and a Monday. All of a sudden it was ovulation tests, fertility drugs, thermometers, laparoscopies and endless gynaecologists sending their Marigolds up to places that no one except your partner should ever visit.

  It was horrible. Bollocks. Unfair. And really, really crap.

  It was all those clichés that you read about in the Daily Mail when Felicity from Chelsea decides to share her infertility experiences with the world. Yes, I called my husband to come home from work because I was ovulating and wanted the eggs fertilised. Yes, I did the legs up against a wall after sex. Yes, every month on the day before my period was due I would get all desperately optimistic and do a pregnancy test. And then another sixteen just in case it was a faulty batch.

  And somewhere in the middle of all that the romance kind of slid away. Actually, that sounds too gradual and gentle. In reality it went downhill like an Olympic skier on a Lurpak lid. It broke my heart.

  Then one day, something really strange happened. It was the launch party for my second novel and I’d spent the whole day in a flurry of excitement, dread and panic. What if no one came? What if the book didn’t sell? What if that cow from that glossy celebrity magazine gave it a bad review? (Incidentally, she did, and one day I swear I’ll track her down.) Anyway, flurry, flurry, flurry…and then I realised that I felt ill. Nauseatingly, gut-twistingly ill. And much as everyone tried to tell me that it was excitement, nerves, stress, etc., etc., I knew differently. I knew. I just knew. A trolley dash round Superdrug, a quick detour into Marks & Spencer’s toilets and seventeen more pregnancy tests confirmed that I was not, in fact, a stressed-out, overexcited basket case. I was pregnant. Cheggers. Up the duff. Banged up. Or as Carol would say–I had a cake in the cupboard.

  Some women were born to be pregnant. Demi Moore. Kate Hudson. Catherine Zeta-Jones. They glow, they bloom, they blossom. Unfortunately I wasn’t one of them. I peed. I sweated. I swore. I went from slim to sumo in about three weeks and spent the rest of my pregnancy humping around the collective weight often adult seals. By the time I actually gave birth I was the size of an aircraft hangar.

  So it’s fair to say that in those months, our sex life was rather infrequent. Definitely less often than a new moon and only slightly more frequent than an eclipse of the sun.

  After what seemed like the gestation period of an African elephant, babe was born, ooohs, aaaaah, gurgle, gurgle, and we called him Mac. In actuality we could have called him Contraceptive because that was the effect. He was either sleeping between us, or on top of one of us, or we were taking it in turns to walk the floor with him while the other grabbed a quick hour of shut-eye on the couch.

  But here’s the weird thing. I’ve heard of this same situation happening with other couples and normally there is one of two fairly predictable outcomes. After a few months, the sex life reverts to situation normal. Or alternatively, the bloke gives up waiting and takes to shagging his secretary.

  In our case, it was neither.

  On the bright side, Mark didn’t go off with his secretary–and I’d like to hope that has more to do with the fact that he adores me than the reality that his secretary weighs sixteen stone, has nostril hair and answers to the name of Harry. Instead he just kind of shut down on the sexual side. Gone. Fun over.

  I suppose I should h
ave paid more attention to it at the time, but to be honest I was grateful. After all, it’s not as if I was throwing my knickers at him and demanding he ravish me once a night and twice on weekends and bank holidays.

  Aaaw, I thought, he’s just so considerate. So undemanding.

  I thought it was all perfectly normal, to be honest.

  And at least I did get the mandatory birthday and Christmas shag.

  Nine months later, Benny came into the world. Two babies in sixteen months. And despite the probability that my privates could now be a prototype for a new Channel Tunnel, we were ecstatic–years of infertility and now we’d somehow managed to buy one, get one free.

  It was great for our hearts and souls, bad for our sleep patterns and nuptials.

  Another zombie-like year later, this time with two babies in tow, I realised that my idea of an orgasm was now a thin and crispy pepperoni and anything with Liam Neeson in it. I’ve always had a thing for him.

  However, it wasn’t the end of the world. I loved Mark. He loved me. He was amazing with the boys. He kissed me like he meant it. He told me he loved me a dozen times a day. We’d cuddle up on the couch every night and enjoy those blissful six and a half seconds before one of us fell asleep. We both revelled in every little new thing that our kids did.

  ‘Guess what, honey, Mac said “mummy” today.’

  ‘Mac ate a whole banana.’

  ‘Benny managed to projectile vomit all the way to the other side of the coffee table.’

  We were happy, contented and together. We still laughed at the same things, understood each other and led a pretty peaceful existence–apart from one time when I suffered a particularly nasty reaction to the dangerous combination of sleep deprivation, a hormonal blip and a few glasses of vino and tried to pummel him with a packet of Pampers for forgetting our anniversary.

  But I was happy. Ecstatic. We had so much going for us: my husband was my favourite person over two feet tall, we had two gorgeous boys, a nice house (apart from the mucky corners) and great friends.

  The positives definitely outweighed the negatives. I could live with the fact that my writing career wasn’t exactly setting the world alight, Mark was working horrendously long hours, and despite his flash salary the exorbitant cost of London living meant we only had £3.63 in our savings account.

  I can remember the exact moment it struck me that I should be concerned about my sex life. Or lack of it. It was late in the evening and I was sitting on the couch. Mark was lying sleeping with his head on my lap. I desperately needed to pee but couldn’t work out how to manoeuvre myself from underneath his head without waking him.

  The closing credits of Taggart had just rolled and I’d even refrained from belting out the ‘No Mean City’ theme tune at the top of my voice. I was aimlessly flicking through the Sky channels, trying to find something to watch, when I came across a documentary on the merits of naturism. At least I thought that’s what it was. Until the naked woman having a picnic in a field started sucking her own nipples and was then joined by a big hunky farmer in a state of excitement. Well, what the sheep in that field must have thought!

  It was shocking. Scandalous. Outrageous. Although I did make a mental note to sign up for a subscription to Country Life. But most of all, it was very, very…horny. I even forgot the urge to pee as I got tingles in an area that had been a distinctly tingle-free zone for longer than I cared to remember. Almost without clear direction from my brain, my hands went wandering–one under my bra (grey, overstretched, another mental note: must go lingerie shopping) and one down to the button on Mark’s jeans. I fumbled for a few minutes, before finally popping it open. God, I was losing my touch. In my younger days I could undress a bloke with one hand, in the dark, while simultaneously biting his ear, talking dirty and parking the car.

  Anyway…fumble, fumble, fumble, much squeezing of own nipples, breathing getting heavy (mine), zip coming down (his), penis located, gentle extrication from boxer shorts, gentle rubbing, then a little faster, a little faster still, then definite reciprocal hardening, then…SWAT!

  He swatted my hand away like I was a mosquito attempting to land on his Ambre Solaire.

  Okaaaay, I thought. He’s obviously still sleeping. He’s confused. He thinks he’s on a sun-lounger in Fuengirola and under attack by a predator. Of the winged variety.

  So let’s try that again.

  I psyched myself back into a lustful mood. The fireplace was now wearing my jumper and my bra was dangling from a lamp. My jeans were open, one hand was going south and the other was going back into Mark’s boxers for a repeat ambush.

  I ran my finger around the tip of his cock, slowly, softly, as he hardened again. Meanwhile my clitoris was throwing a ‘Welcome Back’ party as the DNA codes in my fingers consulted their long-term memory as to what to do.

  I gasped as the tingling reached my toes. My nipples hardened and I was starting to sound like Paula Radcliffe after 26 miles.

  Oooooh yes. That’s it. Oh yes, I remember. Why oh why had I ever stopped doing this–was I crazy? Oh yes, just there. There. There. That’s it. Oh, he’s so hard now. If I could have manoeuvred on top of him I would have done, but fuck it, I was doing just fine where I was. Yes. Yes. There. Oh my…SWAT!

  And this time it was accompanied by one open eye.

  ‘Honey, what are you doing?’ he murmured sleepily.

  Now, call me picky, but there was a time when I wouldn’t have had to draw him a diagram.

  I adopted my sultriest look, threw one tit over my shoulder (flexible tits are one of the benefits/drawbacks of two years of breastfeeding) and leaned down to kiss him.

  ‘I’m playing with your cock while whipping myself into an orgasmic frenzy,’ I whispered playfully.

  Okay, so this is when, if it were a movie, he would open his eyes, smile, run his finger gently down my face and whisper that he loved me–before proceeding to bend me over the back of the couch and roger me until I screamed in orgasmic delight. Then I’d flop into his arms, satisfied and exhausted, content in the knowledge that I’d be walking like a cowboy for the next week.

  Sadly, it wasn’t a movie. It was a three-minute commercial for the merits of chastity and abstention.

  Groggily, he removed my hand from his nethers, turning his head to kiss my belly. ‘I love you, you mad woman,’ he whispered.

  I could have burst with happiness. Right up until he rolled over onto his other side so that I could only see the back of his head and murmured, ‘Babe, I’m too tired. But you go on ahead. Knock yourself out.’

  Who said romance was dead?

  I peeked at the TV screen to see that Farmer Giles and the milkmaid slut were indeed still on course to shag until the cows came home. I flicked off the telly, as deflated as a certain part of my husband’s anatomy. I’d been rejected. Knocked back. Dizzied. Dinged. And I didn’t like it one little bit.

  Over the next few days I couldn’t get it out of my head. I drew up a list of reasons for the collapse of our sex life:

  Mark works far too hard in a very high-pressured job.

  We have two young children.

  He’s always tired.

  I’m always tired.

  We never go out as a couple and so have disconnected from each other.

  I make no effort whatsoever with my appearance any more.

  He’s stopped seeing me as a sexy woman.

  I only wear fabrics that are washable at 40 degrees and dryable on a radiator.

  The kids are always in our bed.

  I couldn’t find my make-up bag if my life depended on it.

  We never get a chance to really talk.

  Don’t think he’d want to anyway.

  I never flatter him.

  He never flatters me.

  My bras are all grey and overstretched.

  When we met I was wild, exciting, unpredictable and horny.

  Now I confuse porn with a naturist documentary.

  When we met he was sexy, fun, interesti
ng and horny.

  Now he confuses a wank with a mosquito.

  It was quite obvious, really. Somewhere in the midst of all the stress, infertility, pregnancy, babies, financial constraints and daily monotony we’d lost that spark. Hell, we’d lost the whole bloody blowtorch.

  That night when he came home for dinner, I was a woman transformed. I had clean hair. I was wearing make-up. I’d alerted Friends of the Earth that a forest was being eradicated before shaving my bikini line. I was wearing tight, sexy jeans and a low-cut sexy top (black, silk, borrowed from Carol, and definitely not dryable on a radiator). The lights were dimmed. The candles were lit. I’d prepared a meal without the aid of a microwave and the kids were next door at Kate’s house.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he said with a grin when he finally got in just after eight. I’d forgotten how handsome he was at the end of a long day. His dark brown hair was ruffled, his face all rugged and stubbly. His green eyes, squinting slightly through tiredness, had the effect of making him look sultry. His tie was loose. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. I could have climbed on top of him right there in the hallway just like the old days.

  Why had it been so long since I noticed all of this?

  Perhaps because normally the minute he walked in the door I thrust a malodorous baby and a nappy in his direction, then raced back in to other child who was in his bed, screaming the place down because his mother had dared to leave the room in the middle of a story about three little pigs under house arrest.