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In the past week I’ve done a lot of thinking about the risks inherent in writing publicly about parenting and sexuality. I’ve pondered how other people have addressed the coexistence of these two topics, and how this blog either succeeds or fails at staying on grounds that seem acceptable and not creepy. Or actionable.
After nearly three years of writing here, I’ve touched on dozens of potentially inflammatory issues. Sexual abuse and assault. Multiple partners and polyamory. Play-parties, threesomes, foursomes. Sex with other people watching. And let’s not forget the buttsex. Oh please, let’s never forget the buttsex.
Sandwiched between entries that many would find reprehensible are posts about my children. About flung sand, picnics on the grass, watering flowers, bathtub antics, bedtime insurgencies. About adoptions, a birth mother, a divorce. About managing the emotions that come from loss, whether it’s over a broken toy, a dying cat or parents who no longer live in the same house.
To me the entries feel seamless. I see the huge swaths of time between parenting and fucking, though I’m not sure I mention them enough. In many cases I struggle to transition from mommy-mode to lover-mode and back again, but I rarely mention those struggles. I don’t mention the decompression necessary between mothering and lover-ing, but it’s there. The dildo-fondling cocksuckery does not take place at exactly the same time as the child-instigated sand-flinging, nor does the buttsex happen concurrently with the supervision of backyard shenanigins.
For many good reasons, not the least of which is that I don’t have enough hands.
Perhaps — though I don’t know for certain — my former spouse would be appalled to know that the mother of his children writes about adult products and the men she loves. Or that I have a basket of dildos on top of the refrigerator. Or that I look at porn when they’re in bed at night. Or that this site accepts ads for stores that sell sex toys. Or that I’ve bent over the kitchen counter (and the washer, and the front bumper of the minivan, and the bathtub, and the dining room table, and the back of the couch) — when the kids are with him, out of the house.
He might be appalled, but would he use those things in some possible future custody dispute?
The simple solution I suppose would be to follow the recommendations of the Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund. If you want to avoid custody issues with a former partner you should “Keep your sex life off the Internet. Don’t blog, create webpages, or post to open or archived lists about sexually explicit material” and “Keep your sex life separate from your parenting.”
That advice is safe. It’s safe in the same way as advice that you shouldn’t ride in a car if you’re worried about crashing, or walk across the street if you fear being hit by a bus. It’s safe advice, but is it something that realistically I want to follow?
Another possibility would be simply to tell him what I do for a living. The less that’s hidden, the better, perhaps. But that is an idea that would need to be vetted with someone knowledgeable in legal matters.
Being close to the situation, I’ve lost all perspective. I forget that not every parent has a box of dildos on top of the refrigerator — or multiple partners. So I ask you, readers: Are you skeeved out by the interspersion of salacious and maternal love? Does it seem odd or uncomfortable to you? Would the subjects be better suited to separate blogs? Do you think less of a mother because she talks about sex?
And, please, I don’t want to hear fifty responses of the “rawk on, dude” variety and none from the “this creeps me out” camp. Please be constructively blunt and speak your mind.
I’d rather know now than too late.



