Exhaustion is the Best Birth Control. Ever.

Two weeks ago I had my final baby-related doctor appointment with my OB.  In case you've not yet taken your turn at the childbirth rodeo, around six weeks postpartum you see your Obstetrician to make sure that everything is all healed and back in working order, so to speak. It's been my experience that the main reason for this visit with your baby doctor is not only to make sure that your lady parts are a-okay, but mostly to discuss birth control.  Look, I get that it's important to talk about contraception options, but when one has just pushed a small human out of her vag, is completely sleep deprived, and has nipples that look like some sort of crime scene, it's hard to imagine there will ever again be a need for birth control. At six weeks postpartum the only penis I want within 100 feet of me is the one attached to my toddler son.

And therein lies the problem.

I personally think that it's totally ridiculous to expect a woman who is still bleeding from her lady parts to have a rational conversation about future pregnancies.  I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that most new Mothers at six weeks postpartum can't imagine that they will ever want to have sex again.  Even if, by some miracle, there is a woman walking this Earth who has a newborn and a rug burned labia and leaky boobs yet still finds herself in the mood for sex, she's probably so sleep deprived that any information relayed to her about contraception is not going to be retained.  There's a reason its called "Mommy Brain"; there's only so much space in the postpartum brain, and most of it is being filled with trying to remember which side the baby nursed on last and what the names are of your other children.  The last thing any new mother in her right mind wants to think about is having sex.  Chances are she's still sort of pissed off at her husband and the really good bottle of wine that lead her to this Doctor's office in the first place.

Look, I've been down this road before and I know that I will, eventually, want to have sex again.  There will come a time when I'm no longer a sleep-deprived zombie, and I will be excited to resume getting down and dirty with the Hubs.  But right now, when I haven't showered or changed out of my pajamas for going on four days, and I still have a rather vivid memory of the pain of childbirth, there is nothing I want to do less than get busy in the bedroom.  My Husband, of course, is the eternal optimist, so he's stocked up on condoms until we get around to scheduling his vasectomy.  Because while we may not be able to agree on how soon we should resume our sex life, our mutual love for good wine remains intact, and neither of us are interested in having a third kid.