MILF Consciousness, in two seasons

The inner goings on of a MILF, during pregnancy (rated PG13) and postpartum (rated X)

All My Needs - Season Pregnancy

Rated PG13

The organic cracker crumbs fall on my sweaty décolletage as I lift his sleeping 34 pound body out of his stroller. I shift his boney knees away from my protruding uterus, to not poke the fetus. Henry’s Mr. Golden Sun shirt rubs the crumbs into my chest. Exfoliating, not scratching, I hope. I focus my breath to climb the two flights to our apartment. I can’t feel the baby moving and I worry it’s because of some stress hormone  is making its fetal brain believe I’m fleeing a predator. I’m not. I’m just trying to make it back into the air conditioning without waking the sleeping toddler. 

An awoken sleepy toddler is the greatest impediment to rest a modern mom knows. I squat to lay Henry’s limp cracker covered body onto his floor mattress. I slip his damp underpants and shorts off his wet tush and replace them with the diaper I retrieved with my pinky finger en route to the bed. He’s still asleep. I cannot believe it. But I also do not have the mental or spiritual capacity required for belief. I cover his chest with his favorite blankie that smells of spoiled milk, and his legs with his preferred quilt — the pink one that used to be mom’s, mine, until he claimed it. This is the tuck-in recipe to guarantee the longest sleep. I’ve learned this through trial and error. I stand. I breathe. I tiptoe away in a zigzag pattern to not hit the squeaky floorboards in his room, which the previous tenants used as an en-suite closet-office combo. In the neighboring ‘suite,’ mine and my husband's room, I pull the dress off my pregnant body. It’s sticky with sweat. I lay it and the toddler clothes across our metal footboard, to dry them out. My mind flashes to the time — daylight. It’s daylight. And my child is asleep. By the grace of a presumptive growth spurt, and a longer than usual park hang, I’ve avoided the bedtime routine.

I do not know the last time this has happened — which may be because it’s been over a year, or because my memory is faulty. Pregnancy brain. Mom brain. Who knows? I don’t. All I know right now is I’m free. An hour of independence gained. And that thought shakes the remaining energy in me. I drop my mostly nude body to the rug in front of my husband. I say, “can you fuck me?” He blinks. “Or maybe I want a nice iced drink.”

His eyebrows furrow. My nervous system flushes out of parasympathetic and my digestive system activates.

 “Actually. I have to go to the bathroom.” 

I poop. I wipe. I keep those details from Joe. I remove my bra and underwear in front of the open fridge. I add ice to a Ghia spritz that's been waiting over a month for a special occasion. I return to my husband's feet.

He laughs, “What is going through your brain?!”

I say, “All my needs.”

---

Maternal Intrusive Thoughts - Season Postpartum

Rated X

I collapsed onto him. My crotch cupped his upper thigh. He reached his arms around and his hand landed onto the crease of my right butt cheek, where my ass meets my legs. His fingertips grazed that gap between upper thigh and bottom of ass that I call The Diamond. That’s what turned me on...