I’ve never been one to keep track of dates. Thanksgiving sneaks up on me every year, and I can never remember that New Year’s Day follows Christmas like a persistent shadow. People who know all about Harvest Moons or Daylight Saving Time must be calendar enthusiasts or perhaps time travelers. Without the aid of digital reminders, I’d miss birthdays, anniversaries, and those surprise giveaways where Oprah hands out fancy appliances like they’re candy. But there’s one date etched in my memory after three pregnancies in three years: the six-week postpartum checkup.
This is the appointment where your OB examines your most private parts under what feels like the spotlight of a reality show. They’ll ask all sorts of questions, trying to gauge how many times you’ve stumbled down the stairs in a sleep-deprived stupor or what your thoughts are on that creepy movie, The Omen. As you subtly hint at a desire for some Tylenol PM for Infants, your doctor will beam at you, congratulate you on your little bundle of joy, and then drop the bombshell that you’re completely unprepared for:
“You can start having sex again.”
Just like that, your “Gone Fishin’” sign has been yanked away. If this is your first baby, your partner will likely be standing there, grinning like a kid who just found a secret stash of candy. But that smile quickly fades as he witnesses your dramatic descent through The Five Stages of Grief, all while you remain in a rather unflattering position.
Denial
“You must have the wrong chart! I just had a baby—a real human! See her? She was inside me until she made her great escape, like a tiny Trojan Horse. Are you sure you’re a doctor?”
Anger
“What’s the point of this appointment? I was promised happy pills, not a sex mandate! And can I please have my underwear back?”
Bargaining
“Okay, maybe I overreacted. Let’s meet halfway. You loosen a few stitches down there, and I’ll send my friends with yeast infections your way. Deal?”
Depression
You enter a quiet phase where you realize the only moments you have for a shower are being stolen from you.
Acceptance
With a slow nod, you realize everyone—your doctor, your baby, your partner—is conspiring to ruin your private life and your binge-watching schedule.
As you leave the office, perhaps still wearing those enormous maxi pads you “borrowed” from the hospital, you waddle away like a zombie with a newfound title: Dead Vagina Walking. Meanwhile, your husband is practically skipping, humming something smooth by Marvin Gaye.
And then it hits you: the date of your six-week postpartum checkup—whatever day that is—will be your personal doomsday. Your family and friends will gather to mourn your loss, saying things like, “She endured too much. Sleepless nights, questionable hygiene, elastic waistbands, and a diet of cereal. And worst of all, her doctor told her she was ready for sex and exercise. It was too much to handle.”
Too much, indeed. A nurse once whispered to me as I left with my first baby that this six-week mark is treacherous: colic kicks in, postpartum blues rear their ugly heads, and the casseroles of support vanish. All of this is compounded when your husband starts giving you those hopeful eyes. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his enthusiasm. Bless the man who sees past sagging skin and stretch marks to the woman he once adored. It’s not about him at all. Your body has been hijacked by unpredictable hormones, your erogenous zones seem non-existent thanks to nursing, and the idea of lying down without falling asleep feels like a distant memory. Not to mention, you’re still recovering, and it feels like Hiroshima down there.
But make no mistake, if you keep citing “funky stuff” as a reason to avoid intimacy, he’ll start to think you’re just making excuses. You can’t even claim you’re entering a convent. Even with the remnants of your sanity, you know that reconnecting could remind you of the person you used to be. After all, you survived pregnancy and birth together; surely you can tackle the bedroom too. Isn’t marriage all about compromise and taking leaps of faith?
But let’s be real—you’re definitely not ready to ditch those sweatpants.
For more on this topic, check out this insightful article that dives deeper into the postpartum experience. Also, if you’re curious about home insemination options, Make a Mom has a comprehensive guide to get you started. And for excellent resources on pregnancy, you might want to visit this site.
In summary, navigating the six-week postpartum checkup is like walking through a minefield of emotions, from denial to acceptance. Your body undergoes a massive transformation, and the pressure to return to your pre-baby self can feel overwhelming. While your partner may be ready to reconnect, you’re still adjusting to your new reality, and that’s perfectly okay.