Ahhhh... the Afterglow

We spend the earlier years of our sexual lives trying to hide from our parents, finally graduating to sweet, unfiltered romps in early adulthood, and then spending the next eighteen years trying to hide from the kids.

So what's worse: parents walking in, or kids?

Enjoy those early adulthood years, folks.

We've been lucky over the past ten years, never once having had to explain "tickling", "wrestling", or my personal favorite, "performing the Heimlich maneuver." There have been a few close calls, but squeaky staircases in old houses do have their benefits. It also helps to have bedrooms on separate floors.

But if you thought coitus interruptus was bad, then you've never been disturbed just afterwards, still panting, pupils dilated, and arguing over whose turn it is to get a towel.

Yes, I am a 'morning person', so to speak, so at times we like to 'celebrate our love' before anyone else gets up. One such Sunday morning, as we were just about to hang our "Mission Accomplished" banner over the headboard, our door (lock obviously not working - again with the old house) pushed open and a mop-headed and very affectionate three-year-old gallops into our nest of marital love.

She is seeking maternal attention.

What does she get instead?

"NO!!!! Get out - NOW!!!"

I'm completely starkers and a little , uh, ...nevermind.

However, she is undeterred.

"Huggy!!!"

She climbs onto my side of the bed, arms stretched out, covers beginning to peel back.

"Honey, no!!! Go watch TV. Now! Now! Now! Seriously!!!"

I feel so, so bad; who can resist a bed-headed child who just wants a "huggy"???

A mom who's not quite, er, ready to be touched just yet, that's who.

"HUGGY!!!"

Without using my hands, I raise my torso and kiss her on her head, saying, "There. I'll give you a 'huggy' here real soon. Just go... somewhere. Wake up your sisters. Let the dogs out. Pour yourself a drink. Start a fire. Drive the car. Please."

"Gummies!"

"Fine with me. Go get 'em. Go. GO!"

So out the door she retreat-gallops, pleased with her clandestine permission to start the Day of Rest with sanctified junk food.

Jim and I look at each other with post-panic grimaces, reminding me of when I was nineteen and spent an entire hour and a half hiding in Brian Edwards' closet. I guess we have a lot to look forward in fifteen years.

Of course, by then, a "huggy" may be all we can muster...