SEX - Stellar, Wholesome Play Date Mom-versation

What do moms in their 30s talk about during madcap 12-kid mega play-date parties when they’re not diligently downloading breast milk, mopping up baby boogers and breaking up grabby, inconsolable toddlers vying for the same toy?

When the requisite small-talk chit-chat about which ever-so-academically-astonishing preschool our little clones attend where, and which stroller works best for which outing, there’s only one topic left to turn to: S-E-X, the three-letter word that gave us moms something to collectively bitch about (and swoon over) in the first place.

Yes, SEX, but more specifically, who puts out and who is too tired and over-touched by kids to even think about putting out. Without outing any unknowing innocents, I will say that most of the play date moms reported little to no action.

Exactly what is to blame for the Barren Bed Syndrome the majority of moms I gabbed with openly copped to?

A zillion mostly parenting-related reasons/excuses, including but not limited to:
- I’m too tired. (Duh! This one is a no-brainer, ladies.)

- I just don’t fit into my lingerie like I used to. (The last time I checked sex is clothing optional and the mummy tummy is surprisingly tuckable. Simply knead that flabby, deflated raw pizza dough looking mushy mass into your undies and call it Victoria’s Scandal.)

- My husband never wants me. (Clearly, I made this one up for my own amusement. I don’t think any of us could possibly say that with even an iota of truth behind it. Men are never, EVER too tired to do it. It's a conspiracy against oft tired, overworked women and mothers, I tell you!)

- My libido went AWOL (along with my placenta) the day I became a mother. (I think pesky postpartum testosterone robbing hormone surges are culpable here. ‘Better look this one up while hunting down an affordable herbal aphrodisiac.)

- The pong of curdled, upchucked, sour breast milk and bitter Gerber mashed peas doesn’t turn me on.

(When a woman breastfeeds, the coveted double milk wet bar belongs to her and ONLY her. Well, maybe the baby can claim a wee bit of boob ownership, I guess. If you found your engorged, lactating breasts sexy, please don’t leave me comments to that effect so I won’t finally lose a years-old bet with my husband. Let’s not even talk about what happens to nursing breasts during a climax!)

Anyway … I had a blast yesterday with some of the most fun, authentic, down-to-earth moms I’ve met since becoming a mom nearly six years ago at their anything but dull, not-at-all-annoying-in-the-usual-ways mah-velous play date.

I swear I’d like to compulsively speed dial these mamas every day. To bitch over lattes. To collectively ignore our kids at the park on the hill while we shoot the shit and later nitpick sliver-hazard wood chips out of our our wee ones' velcro’d play shoes.

Maybe to even bribe our husbands with exotic sexual favors (we’re 99.9% guaranteed not to make good on because we blog every night, all night) so we can sneak out for a decadent mamas' night out of shaking our money (and incidentally baby) makers while imbibing heavily at the downtown Latin art gallery/sangria-flamenco bar.

Some claim new mom friends are like new boyfriends. They say you shouldn't call them right away or they'll think you’re pathetic, desperate, clingy. Screw that. I never even waited on that pivotal "first call" when I dated. I called when I damn well wanted to. I called in the middle of the night, even. That's what impulsive, crazy mamas like me do.

That’s it. I’m calling my new mama friend, L., tomorrow to set up a, you guessed it, a bloody stereotypical play date. She’s just the type of mama not to judge me if I don’t sweep up the Pirate’s Booty flakey cheddar puff dander after another lunchtime “Mom started it” food fight.

Maybe I won’t even fold the heap of crinkled toddler and adult boxer shorts that’s been staring back at me from the couch for a whole 24 hours, the one our stray cat has taken to lounging on. Just to test out her "realness" I won't clean a thing before my new mama friend arrives with her two itching to play kids in tow. (All three males in my cluttered abode are just one pair of boxers away from free-fallin' it if I don’t get busy!)

Usually I dread play dates/play groups because I hardly ever manage to filter out the square conservative moms.

Play date after play date, I miserably fail to zoom in on any crunchy-granola-ish/home birth advocating/breastfeeding enthusiast/major TV-intake-limiting/on and off again cosleeping/new age-y/human pretzel yoga head/tofu grubbing nature mommy freaks like me.

Who cares if my kids click with other kids at play dates, right?! You know the truth even if you don’t like it; Play dates are really an excuse for bored SAHMs to swap -insert baby bodily fluid here- war stories and desperately seek validation that they aren’t the only ones barely dangling from the manic, jagged maternal edge.)

Back to sex, probably the most searched word on the entire infinite Internet.

Allow me to share a sex-u-cation lesson I gleaned 10 years too late today at said play date fabuloso: putting out often magically gives you carte blanche to shop to your heart's content, ladies. I can't believe I didn't already know this one. I must be the last, stupid one.

Apparently your very satisfied customer husband/partner won’t give a flip if you max out your joint platinum card on a snazzy pair of $1,000 Prada knee-high winter boots. (But who needs snooty-tooty Prada when there’s knock-off Prada at Target. Seriously, some of the shoes at “the bull’s-eye” are downright cute, even if they reek like roadkill when your feet sweat.)

In case you care, the world’s most expensive shoes cha-ching in at $2 million dollars! What idiot would spend a cool $2 mil on slutty high-heeled slippers that look like cheap toe tiaras? I’m sure some gluttonous celebrity out there would just because she could. Click here if you want to take a quick gander at 'em.

If I know what’s good for me, I’ll quit blogging this very minute and head for bed, since the only purpose of a mother’s bed is sleep, right? Hmmm.