I published the following post on the Huffington Post two days ago. Judging by the 400-plus comments, I apparently hit a raw nerve. I only read two comments before feeling nauseous. And I didn’t go back because my friends who did read the comments told me to stay clear.
You always run the risk of being attacked, of course, when you write about something so private. But I suspect most people can’t appreciate the sheer fatigue a working mom of young kids feels at the end of the day … when you have invested 10 hours of your entire self into your work and settled the 21st argument between Thing One and Thing Two, throwing both into their rooms for the fifth emotional outburst of the day. Maybe I should have explained that I have trouble doing ANYTHING at night. I haven’t read in eight years, ever since the insomniac of a son was born, because I have no energy and even less concentration. The only thing I am good for after putting Katherine to bed is staring at the ceiling … which I do for fifteen minutes before snoozing.
So throw the stones if you want, but I know in my heart that committing to sex at least twice a week is an act of love, not selfishness. And my therapist agrees.
At Eric’s 40th birthday party, just as he was blowing out the candles on his cake, one of my friends asked, "What do you think he’s wishing?"
I blurted out, "That every night be trash night."
She howled. She knows the history of trash night in our home….
A year or so ago, I got fed up with my mate’s constant begging for sex, so one night I asked him point blank, "What is the minimal number of times a week that you need sex in order to be satisfied?"
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