Life gets a lot less sexy when a kid enters the picture. And I'm not just talking about the undergarments. Although if you've seen my "Fancy Undergarment Trajectory Chart", you know— it's not pretty.


Compelling as that is, I'm talking about something else. I'm talking about the things my husband has witnessed, the things that I have witnessed, the things that we have participated in together and… WELL. These are not the things of which foreplay is made.

For instance— the breast pump (yes, I am revisiting that again). A wise friend once told me that the second your husband sees you with a milking apparatus strapped to your chest, all sex appeal goes out the window. My fix? I swore I would never let Mike see me do the deed.

Oh, the things our brain lets us believe before we have children.

I thought if I pumped at home, I would do it in the privacy of my bedroom, with music drowning out the sound of the motor and a silky bathrobe demurely sashed around my waist when the task was complete.

Well, that plan didn't take into account the fact that breast pumping is done several times a day and is also THE MOST BORING THING imaginable. I learned that if I'm going to spend precious evening-time tethered to an outlet, that outlet is going to be at my kitchen counter. Where I have a place to put my laptop. And access to snacks.

EDITOR'S NOTE: If you had told Mike that parenthood meant there would be a topless woman at his kitchen counter doling out free drinks every night— I'm sure he would have pictured the exact opposite of what actually went down. (Sorry, babe.)

You know what else isn't sexy?



I believe parenthood is split into two parts. Before and after— THE BIG DIAPER BLOWOUT.

Let me demonstrate.

It was early evening. Mazzy was about four months old. She was fed and getting our full attention, but acting moody and distracted regardless.

Then she made the face. You know the face? Confusion mixed with extreme concentration.

It stunk immediately.

Mike and I looked at each other, instinctually knowing this was going to be a two-person-job.

Before we even made it to the changing table, we discovered the poop had traveled straight up her back. We detoured to the bathroom.

Mike held Mazzy dangling over the tub while I stripped off her clothes.

I reached the diaper. It was COVERED. Inside and out.

I looked at Mike. Surely he would impart some knowledge on the best method for me to remain poop-free. The man has a preferred method for EVERYTHING (you may think I'm speaking sexually here but actually I'm talking about things like cutting a tomato and refilling hand soap canisters).

Mike shrugged. He had nothing.

I took a deep breath and carefully unfastened one diaper tab. Then the other. Then I summoned up all my surgical expertise (gleaned from playing and replaying the game of Operation as a child) and attempted to remove the diaper with as little movement as possib—

She kicked her leg.

It splattered.

Not just anywhere.


Mike laughed and laughed in a way that said— "This image of you with shit splatter on your face will be ingrained forever."


You wanna have sex now?

I thought not.


Okay— your turn. Give me your unsexiest parenting moment or biggest diaper disaster.

UPDATE: I picked the top six stories from the comment section below and from the Mommy Shorts Facebook Fanpage am pitting them against each other in a post entitled: Unsexy Parenting: Now a Competitive Sport. Vote for your favorite!