>Dirty Talk

>It’s well documented that when a man and woman have a baby together, sex goes out the window.

The blame is usually placed on lack of sleep, post-partum body issues, or an inability to find a time in which the baby isn’t awake or sleeping between the couple. But I would argue that another factor is responsible for The Big Chill.

Baby talk.

When I spend an entire day taking care of a toddler, my diction takes a nosedive. And lately, I’m finding it harder and harder to transition back into Adult-Speak when my husband gets home. A few examples….

BB (That’s Before Baby, for you neophytes): Honey, it’s time for dinner! We’re having Chicken Pot Pie and vegetables.
AB: Are you hung-wee? Hung-wee? Here’s some chick chick! Mmmmm! And brockly! Yum yum!

BB: Hey can you take out the trash?
AB: Ooooh, something stinky! Its a mess! Out! Out! Tash!

Eee-yeah. There’s nothing sexy about Baby Talk. Nothing at all. Particularly in those moments when it’s just the two of us and all of the children have gone to bed.

BB: Pour a glass of wine, darling. I’m going to slip into something a little more comfortable. I’ll be right back.
AB: Mommy go poo poo in the potty.

It’s so bad, in fact, that I’ve all but forgotten the sexy speak that won my husband over in the first place. In the unlikely event that I manage to squelch the baby talk, I inexplicably start spouting seductive dialogue worthy only of a a 50s-era b-movie. Worse, in our sordid bedroom scene, I generally have the man’s lines.

“Come over to my place, Shweetheart, and give me a little sugar,” I’ll say, turning off my Itty Bitty Book Light.

“Um, I’m right beside you,” my husband says warily in the dark.

“I’m ready to find out what goes ‘bump’ in the night,” I continue, undaunted.

Hubs is not one to let an opportunity pass him by. But as things heat up, the one-liners keep bubbling unbidden from my mouth.

“Hey sailor, looks like you found some pirate’s booty…”

He manages to ignore that one.

“Lookie lookie lookie, here comes nookie!”

Hubs can’t help but snort, but quickly regains his, erm, composure.

“Oh Lord, I thanky for this hanky panky!”

“All right, STOP!” Hubs says, desperately stifling a laugh. “What’s with the one-liners? You’re spoiling the mood!”

“I’m sorry,” I giggle helplessly. “I don’t know what gets into me.”

More accurately, I don’t know what’s coming out of me.

So far, Hubs has forgiven both my toddler babble and my shameful sex talk, but surely at some point, he’ll question his ardor for a woman who looks like the girl he married, but talks like a cross between a perverted Teletubbie and Humphrey Bogart in The Red Shoe Diaries. And then it will only be a matter of time before he takes up golf, buys an Xbox 360 and reconfigures his downtime into a schedule befitting a proper suburban husband.

But these are worries for another day. Right now, I’ve got to put the baby to bed.

And then I’m going to see a man about popping my cork.

Happy New Year’s Eve, everyone.