Recently I overheard several men discussing intimate relations with a new dad. New Dad's wife had just received her six-week postpartum visit and the men wanted to know if the doctor gave them the official "OK" for fun. New Dad said they had the green light, but he lamented that with all the bathing, feeding, clothing, and care-taking of their four children - there was no time.

These men commiserated on the horror of having to wait for the lovin' and they described their own harrowing tales of bravado and endurance when a "dry spell" hit; bless their hearts.

How can these new mothers be so cold? Sure, there are a few new moms that turn up pregnant at their 6-week check up because they enjoy pain or they momentarily lost their minds (or gave in to their whining husbands). But, most women don't have a problem waiting until the doctor gives them the 'all clear' for love.

After giving birth to three children, I was in no hurry to do jump into the sack during the postpartum period. My dear one had to wait until our newborn was eating cereal before we finally rekindled the fire that was put out with dirty diapers.

Why the long delay? Gosh, with the hemorrhoids, healing episiotomy stitches, saddle soreness, constipation, and gas, gee, I was about as turned on as I'd feel watching Bill Clinton do a table dance in his hot pink g-string. Not.

I also had this mental block about permitting anything near the portion of my body that recently allowed a small human to pass through it. My dear one would crawl in bed and I would whimper, "You aren't going to WANT anything tonight are you?"

Knowing the correct answer to this question, he would grunt, "No. Just sleep and mmmffffmmnnn."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. I just burped."

Yeah, that's what I thought he said. When I finally healed, there were other things happening that took away from that lovin' feelin'. Most notably: breast-feeding. My new industrial-sized breasts were the center of much attention - at first. I never had cleavage before and I was like a kid with a new toy, but unfortunately the damp nursing bras, soreness, and occasional engorgement combined with those really attractive nursing pads ruined the moment (no matter how fleeting it was).

Finally when an opportunity for love did arrive, a voice would bellow from the bathroom, "Mom-UH! Come wipe my butt!" or we'd hear the locked door rattle and a small someone would say, "Daddy, why you got dat door shut for?" or the baby would begin to cry.

We moms aren't cold - we're just trying to show postpartum prudence. With sore bottoms, rock-hard breasts that weigh 40 pounds each, a child to constantly decontaminate, no sleep, ill-fitting clothes, and on top of it all, a husband who follows us around the house with this look of pitiful longing, we tend to get a tad defensive.

Nevertheless, I believe that we should feel flattered. Our mates want us even when we are padded, gassy, bloated, sore, and grouchy. Now that is true love! Or is it ...?

Nah.

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