How Childbirth Improved Our Sex Life
āIāve seen too much now,ā my partner says.
Heās joking, of course (is he, though?), in response to my query about our sex life. We talk about how men āevolveā after they become fathers. How my partner hasnāt balked at any nip-slip or bodily function of mine in half a decade. And what this means for sexāthe sex weāre havingāin particular.
Childbirth improved our sex life. Truly. And while attributing the best sex of my life to an emergency C-section might seem an unusual claim, it makes sense when you think about it. My partner saw me at my most vulnerable, covered in body fluids, and driven by instinct and determination to get this baby out. He watched my abdomen shift into an oblong protrusion and he probably saw me pee myself. There are no more secrets in our relationship; this level of weāve-been-through-it-all has helped us to reconcile ourselves with our bodies, our desires, and our relationship, too.
Sex is as intimate as it physically gets, and great sexāthe kind old Cosmos once had us dreaming aboutācomes from an intimacy thatās built on openness, communication, trust, and acceptance. And now we have acceptance in spades! Itās impossible for my partner to ignore the unspoken and spoken realities of my body, and how it has changed since pregnancy, during which Iād planned for a water birth at home, with a midwife at my side.
But my sonās birth went awry, back in September of 2015. While I had begun with a water birth so relaxed it still feels to me as if I was in a dream state, I developed complications along the way and had to be rushed to the hospital for my baby to be delivered via Cesarean section. Prior to this, my need for water, solace, and respite from pain was urgentāand life-sustaining. My partner attuned to meāwatching for the moan that meant another contraction, holding my hips and legs when I crouched or stood or rolled over. With my body scaffolded over his, seeing our babyās head move down the birth canal, we moved toward a deeper knowledge of ourselves, and of each other.
My partner saw me enter the deepest recesses of my mind to escape the pain tearing through my torso. He heard my cries of agony and my slightly maniacal laughter that rippled through the tense operating theatre. Hearing our newbornās cry pierce the first morning light transformed us. With my birth plan out the window, weād been forced to accept whatever came in its place. And this surrender to the moment carved out space for a new reality to form, both in my unplanned cesarean and in the rest of our relationship, too.
Childbirth showed us that we are human beings, made from flesh and blood and bone. In other words: birth was our close encounter with mortality, and it made us aware of how quickly everything can change. We appreciate each other in a way we didnāt before that night; we understand how perishable our bodies are. And there really is no escaping the body once youāve given birth. Every new pound, stretch mark, and swollen milk duct roots you in flesh that wonāt yield to pre-pregnancy sculpting. My partner watched my body slowly stitch itself together, and my breasts fill and empty of milk, and my skin envelop my new shape. This awakening fed into a closer physical and emotional bond that feels more innate and intuitive than it did before.
Nothing about my body can embarrass me now. Nothing. Not after a birth experience so wild and unexpected it irrevocably changed my and my partnerās emotional and physical lives. Picture it, meāentirely naked and sporting an unbecoming bun on top of my headāyelling profanities at my partner while a nurse inserts a catheter into my urethra and preps me for surgery.
Reader, I am embarrassment-proof. No silver stretch mark snaking over the dimpled expanse of my bum or bodily event can cause me to doubt my sexiness or believe Iām unworthy of physical intimacy. Sure, I wish the skin on my stomach was tighter. And I still have hormonal acne scars. But childbirth forced radical self-acceptance upon me, gendered expectations of perfection be damned. I donāt care for dim lights or strategic angles that soften my bodyās appearance. Iām 31 years old, and Iām proud of what my body has done. I like catching glimpses of myself in the bedroom mirror. I like my bigger ass; my D-cup breasts.
That confidence translates into me better communicating my needs in bed, and caring less (if at all) about sounds, fluids, and kinks that once made me self-conscious. Iām not afraid to āfailā in bed. I donāt let fears of seeming tame, or wild, or strange or being utterly crap at a sex act scare me off from trying it. I use the energy and mood Iāve got, even if that means openly admitting Iām only down for lazy sex that night.
By releasing our preconceptions of childbirth, my partner and I have since leaned into a new reality, and part of this has been accepting sex in all its glorious forms. That itās sometimes awkward, or comical. How cumbersome bodies can look, and what bizarre noises fluid and skin can produce. We forgiveāand even enjoyāthe shuddering and giggling born from mishaps and forays into new sexual territory. And we continue to accept each otherās differing desires, seasons of mismatched libidos, and our bodiesā limitations.
The world unfolds in unique ways after giving birth. And in and amongst the discoveries (how mastitis turns breasts to flame, the peace and exhaustion that babies bring) there are pleasant surprises, too. Not least of all, the potential for better, more emotionally-connected sex.
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Megan Ross is a writer and journalist from South Africa. She is the author of Milk Fever (uHlanga Press), a poetry collection, and has received critical acclaim for her short fiction, essays and poetry. Megan is a recipient of the Brittle Paper Award and is an Iceland Writers Retreat Alumnus. She has been twice-shortlisted for the Miles Morland Writing Scholarship and was recently a finalist for the Gerald Kraak Award (the anthology in which her essay was published went on to be a LAMMY finalist). She currently lives on the Wild Coast with her partner and her exceedingly adorable son.