A warm greeting to all those who connect to the Internet and visit this sanctuary of
scattered words because they wish to step through the doors of our virtual home.
Before we begin, I'd like to clarify an important point.
The title, when tears interrupt the tango, is the name I chose for this gathering of
scattered words.
But why?
Why this title?
Could it be that I'll be giving you dance lessons between tearful poems and stories?
Nothing could be further from the truth.
What you're about to hear isn't meant to deliver judgments, verdicts, or finger pointing,
much less universal recipes or absolute truths.
These are words born from personal experiences and reflections shared in confidence,
offered with the intention of opening a truly human space for dialogue, about life as a couple,
intimacy, and the everyday interruptions that life inevitably brings.
Perhaps one of the two experiences I'm about to share will resonate with your own,
or maybe not at all.
What truly matters is that you listen with freedom, without guilt or judgment,
without worry or shame, without taboos.
Listen with maturity.
Keep in mind that intimacy in a relationship isn't measured by perfection,
but by the ability to find each other again and again amidst real everyday life.
After all, even the tango is danced with pauses.
Now then, let's get started with today's little story.
It all began on a family unity day, since even my husband wasn't going to work.
It was Benjamin's and my turn to prepare lunch,
as we've scheduled on the rotating calendar we organize each week.
Of course, it's a flexible calendar, subject to change,
because, for instance, on this occasion he couldn't help me.
He had to leave to handle an emergency.
One of his patients hospitalized in the mental health unit due to a case of multiple
sexual assaults had become unmanageable after receiving a visitor.
Not with any real justification, but because of her psychiatric and emotional condition,
she tried to throw herself out the window of her room.
My husband had barely finished breakfast when he rushed to our bedroom to change clothes.
Time is extremely limited in situations like this.
It's about seizing whatever chance you can to bring stability amid a storm
that simply won't pass.
He ordered the immediate administration of a fast-acting psychopharmacological cocktail,
until he, as the attending physician on the case,
could arrive to assess the situation and make decisions,
including, for her own safety, prohibiting any further visits.
At home, I was left alone with my in-laws and my children.
Everyone else had gone out to different places
after clearing the table and tidying up.
I began checking the pantry shelves to see if we were missing anything I'd need for cooking,
and sure enough, we were out of za'atar, which I needed to prepare exactly what everyone had asked
for after I'd asked them what they wanted for lunch.
Since there's a shop near where we live that sells every kind of spice and stays open non-stop,
I grabbed my purse and told my in-laws,
who were sitting on the living room sofa with their grandchildren,
that I wouldn't be long.
My father-in-law simply reminded me to take my phone, just in case.
Here's a brief parenthesis.
That, just in case, my father-in-law mentioned, refers to his son.
Because Binyamin often calls me during the day, just to check in.
And what does he want to know about me?
Well, things.
My emotions, how I'm feeling.
If I don't answer, it's not that he gets angry with me.
It's not that he creates some ridiculous dramatic jealousy scene without cause,
especially considering that, as he's told me before,
he sometimes handles truly hellish cases involving a fellow-like delusional jealousy.
His reaction is sincere and deep.
It's simple.
But that doesn't make it in less significant when he doesn't get a reply from me.
My husband worries, even though he understands that if I don't answer,
it's because I'm busy or my phone died or I fell asleep, and so on.
Still, he worries.
Not excessively, not to the point of collapse like before,
not to the point of intrusions that would disrupt his own work.
But yes, Binyamin does worry, and I understand that.
I understand and respect his concern,
which is why I always try to answer his calls or send him quick little messages,
so he knows I'm here, that I'm still myself, that I haven't mentally drifted away.
I close the parenthesis.
The truth is, after kissing my father-in-law's hand,
I assured him I wouldn't be long.
I told him not to worry, that there was no need for him to come with me,
especially since he was clearly enjoying the company of his wife
and the laughter of his grandchildren.
I also told him that if Binyamin called the house
because I hadn't heard my phone ring,
he should just let him know I'd gone to the spice shop
and that I'd call him back as soon as I got home.
I returned with the latar, and just as I was about to open the front door,
my neighbor appeared to greet me.
She'd given birth to her first child only five months ago.
Ever since she moved into the neighborhood, seven years ago now,
our friendship has always been lovely.
We've never had any issues with any member of her family.
In fact, we've shared many after-dinner conversations,
at her house when they've invited us, and at ours when we've invited them.
After the customary kiss on the cheek, I asked her,
so what can I do for you, dear?
She replied with an invitation to go out for lunch.
She explained that her sisters-in-law had come to visit their nephew
and could stay with the baby while the two of us went out.
She even asked me to call Binyamin to tell him about the invitation,
but I told her I couldn't go out with her.
Her face fell.
She looked genuinely saddened and even offered to speak directly to my husband
to ask for his permission.
She wanted to reassure him not to worry,
especially since she'd be the one taking me out
and would bring me back safe and sound right into his arms.
At that, I laughed and told her I didn't need Binyamin's permission to go out.
What was really happening was that I had to prepare lunch for everyone.
It was my responsibility to organize everything in the kitchen
and also make sure the food actually tasted good.
Still, I didn't dismiss her invitation.
Instead, I offered her another option.
I'd call her right after lunch so we could go wherever her car wheels took us,
just the two of us, to talk.
She accepted.
Back at home, everything turned out delicious at lunch,
both the meal itself and the conversation afterward.
Still, I had to say goodbye to everyone present,
explaining that I had plans with our neighbor
and that Binyamin knew about it because I'd already called to tell him.
I got myself ready, and when I was all set,
I put everything I might need into my purse.
I even tucked in some tissues.
Once we were at the cafe my neighbor had chosen,
she, with a very strong cup of coffee,
me with a large mug of herbal tea,
and both of us accompanied by a small tray of sweet and savory pastries,
we began chatting about all sorts of things,
as a gentle lead-in to the real purpose of our outing.
A few little things that act like hammers breaking the hardest ice.
I told her about my sanctuary of plants in the greenhouse.
She told me about her sisters-in-law's visit
and the kind of relationship she has with them.
I shared the recipe I'd made for lunch.
She spoke about her weekly grocery shopping.
But I knew neither of us had come all the way to the cafe
just to chat about such trivial, everyday matters.
We could have done that right at the front door for a few minutes.
So, not because I thought it was a waste of time,
but simply because I was curious to uncover the real reason
behind her urgent invitation, I finally asked her,
what's the true purpose of this outing?
She didn't know how to answer, how to open up,
how to pour herself out, maybe out of shame,
maybe because she feared it would feel like an intrusion into my intimacy,
or perhaps because she worried I'd feel uncomfortable with her confessions
and think all this time together had been nothing but a pointless waste,
even a fuel, until she finally found the courage.
Rebbe, do you love your husband? Does he love you?
The answer could have been obvious and quick,
without any poetic flourish. Yes, I love my husband and he loves me.
Done. I could have even called Binyamin right then,
put him on speakerphone and let my neighbour hear his answer herself.
After all, he was the one indirectly addressed by her question,
the very person alluded to in that cafe.
But my neighbour wasn't just asking whether I loved Binyamin and he loved me in words.
She was asking through actions, and in that moment,
I understood the unspoken question beneath her words.
She revealed that she hasn't been intimate with her husband
and feels this reality has begun to damage her marriage.
I asked her if she was experiencing any physical or even emotional issue
that kept her from enjoying sex with her partner,
whether she'd noticed any physical or emotional difficulty on his part
that might explain why he wasn't touching her,
because after all, that can happen.
I told her that even when there's no deeper or structural problem,
it's actually quite common and temporary for libido to drop to barely detectable levels.
It can happen because of a stressful day, accumulated exhaustion,
a cold or even drunkenness, so many things.
She replied that this wasn't something fleeting.
They'd gone more than 11 months, practically almost a year,
without taking any time for themselves as a couple in any sense of the word.
She said they'd even talked about it and tried to reconnect intimately,
but it only led to frustration and sometimes even arguments instead of healing.
She insisted it wasn't physical and it wasn't mental either,
so I asked her the million-dollar question.
If it's not physical, because some women do experience discomfort,
even years after childbirth, and if it's not mental,
then what's blocking that vital connection in a marriage or a stable relationship?
Her answer was clear.
The truth is, as a couple, they've buried their orgasms in the coffin of forgetfulness.
Ever since they found out about the pregnancy,
they've convinced themselves that the physiologically natural drive for sexual intimacy
must be switched off entirely, so that only one switch remains lit and overloaded,
the one for self-sacrificing parenthood with no rights left, only duties.
For her, and certainly for her husband, too, this lack of sexual connection
is entirely their child's fault and everything tied to his care,
including what surrounded the pregnancy itself.
They'd clung to the myth that sex during gestation is strictly forbidden,
and, of course, it can be, but only in very specific situations
involving physical or emotional health.
For instance, like what happened to me with cervical circulage,
I could barely move from bed, all to help my uterus hold on as long as possible to my twins
until nearly 34 weeks.
But, thanks to the creator, I held on even longer.
Shabtai and Mizanik were born at 36 weeks.
No emergency C-section was needed.
My delivery was natural and not assisted by instruments.
My neighbor and her husband believed things intensified the moment their baby was born.
Everything changed, even something that belonged solely to the two of them,
something no one else, not even their child, should ever interrupt.
Because every time they've tried to be intimate,
just as they're about to enjoy those beautiful,
post-orgasmic moments that sex can offer, the baby wakes up and starts crying.
And so, still undressed, deeply aroused, they've had to abruptly stop their tender play
and abandon their attempts at practicing their homemade kama sutra.
She told me she sought me out not because she expected me to give her a solution
since she understands that I must be going through the same thing,
or even worse, given that I don't have just one young child, but three.
She said she simply wanted someone to listen to her,
without judging her desires that exist beyond motherhood,
because she's already been judged enough, made to feel not only selfish herself,
but that her husband is selfish too,
just for considering the possibility of going out together for a romantic dinner,
for watching a movie, for showering together,
for making love without interruptions,
maybe even in a hotel room or somewhere outside the house,
hiring a babysitter for just a few hours.
All she wanted was a pair of ears and a sensitive heart
that wouldn't repeat back to her what she'd already heard from her mother,
her mother-in-law, or even other friends,
mothers themselves, who only added more weight to her guilt.
Well, I'm a biochemist by profession,
but, as I told my neighbor,
no matter how many times I tried to unravel the mysteries
that might help me concoct some magical formula
to counteract a healthy sexual desire,
not just at its beginning,
but especially when it's been interrupted, it's simply impossible.
I told her my husband and Maudi's a kind of ironic twist of fate.
He spends his days analyzing other people's minds,
yet he can't possibly predict when one of our children,
or two, or all three at once,
will decide that this exact moment is the ideal,
perfect, and complete time
to offer us a full symphony of crying
as their heartfelt thank you for all our parental care.
After all, with a daughter suffering from acute, chronic, incurable,
and untreatable daddy love,
and two twin boys with explorer souls,
stubbornly independent as if they were already adults,
Binyamin and I have never managed to develop a finely-tuned sixth sense,
capable of detecting the precise moment
when we should or shouldn't attempt something sexual,
or even something romantic that might naturally lead to intimacy,
because, inevitably, will be interrupted by unrestrained crying.
I told her that, even so, we always try,
because desire, that natural longing for closeness
and a renewed expression of love simply overpowers everything else.
That's undeniable.
I didn't tell my neighbor I understand you,
because that would have been unnecessary, even senseless.
The truth is, despite interrupted or failed intimate moments,
Binyamin and I have never fought to the point of cracking our marriage,
never blamed the children we ourselves chose to bring into this world.
Instead, I shared a story with her, not someone else's, but my own.
A lived experience, something ordinary,
something that has happened not just once to my husband and me
as parents, and has echoed through our relationship as a couple.
Yet, it has never caused a rift so deep
that not even the best glue devised by sexology could mend it.
Because we know, and deeply understand,
that sex is an important root in marriage, yes,
but also a flexible one, malleable, ductile, able to bend without breaking.
After all, even though she'd come simply wanting to be heard,
she asked me a question I truly had to answer, because that question,
Ribe, do you love your husband and does he love you?
Crossed a threshold straight into the intimate, the tender, the sexual.
So, I opened my answer with just one word.
I remember.
I remember that when our daughter's recent birthday came around,
we celebrated the blessing of having her with us.
We were happy, fulfilled, especially because the day before her party,
child welfare officers had come to check on how she was doing after the adoption,
and they left reassured.
Another year with official approval for both my husband and me as her parents,
and also for everyone in our home who plays an active role in her upbringing in care,
her grandparents, aunts, and uncles.
We had a wonderful time, but as all celebrations must eventually come to an end,
the river's stones returned to their course by 10 o'clock that night.
Benjamin and I saw all our guests out the front door,
thanked the children and their parents for coming, and once the door was closed,
I told my husband we needed to tidy up a few things in the kitchen.
Everything had to be in order for the next day,
since two very dear friends of my older brother were arriving from Israel.
Benjamin didn't refuse, not that he really could.
He just looked at me, smiled, and thanked me for making our daughter's party
such a beautiful event, even down to the colors I'd chosen to decorate the house.
Our guest of honor and her brothers were already deep in REM sleep,
as my mother-in-law put it, because she, along with my own mother,
had taken charge of the grandchildren so that we could finish what was left undone
and then go rest. He turned on his phone and played some music,
softly, something that wouldn't exceed the decibel limit allowed in the second floor bedrooms.
He took off his shoes and socks before stepping into the kitchen,
I'd already done the same. We started tidying up what was left,
and between one song and the next, we finished in about half an hour.
So much passed between us during that short stretch of cleaning and mutual help.
Things that, at the time, I'm not sure whether it was fatigue
or simply lack of time that kept me from fully noticing or analyzing them.
To me, they felt automatic, almost invisible,
because that's exactly what they were, every day gestures.
Feelings that never fade, words that are spoken, desires left unspoken,
but expressed in other ways, like when we kissed just before starting to clean the kitchen,
and I squeezed his right buttock, and he responded by gently caressing
my left breast beneath my bra. We went up to the third floor,
heading toward the attic where our bedroom is, but first, as always,
we made our customary little stop, a tradition between my husband and me,
our children's room. We checked that everything was in order in their cribs,
including the interconnected baby monitor my father-in-law had installed,
so we could hear if one, two, or all three of them started crying.
Our children have mostly, almost entirely, regulated their sleep by now.
Still, as is normal, they can wake up for any reason, anything from real emergencies to
simple sleep tantrums triggered by outside noises that sometimes grow louder in the street.
Everything was perfect, the kids asleep, perhaps dreaming of unicorns or stuffed animals,
knocked out already plotting their next lesson for us, the house silent,
and the two of us in bed, sitting close, wrapped in each other's arms, tired but not sleepy,
finally watching that independent film we'd been trying to finish for two months.
Suddenly, his left hand met my right. It was a casual or perhaps fateful brush
that turned into a tender caress along my cheek. His fingers traced slow circles around my wrist
while I pretended to focus on the screen, using my free hand to reach for something on my nightstand.
Your Levothroxene tablets are on my nightstand. What are you looking for, Reeb?
He asked in that voice he uses when he doesn't care at all what I'm actually searching for.
My sanity, I replied, as I turned off the monitor displaying our children's room.
But he switched it right back on and kept listening
to the reasons why I'd lost my sanity at some point during the day,
simply by watching him be such an extraordinary father.
You know what I miss, my dear private psychiatrist? I whispered leaning close to his ear.
That kiss you gave me in the shower, the one we finally shared after months
without managing to bathe together, a habit I thought buried forever under poor coordination and
endless arguments with the clock. Which kiss?
Binyamin played dumb as he turned off the TV with the remote and tossed it onto the sofa,
meaning, once again, that indie film was left hanging with that old saying,
we'll see, said the blind man.
Don't make me repeat it, I replied, biting my lip as I pulled off the t-shirt he sometimes
wears to bed. Oh, now I remember. The one Anayi's neem described as a little sweet death, he asked.
I just nodded. I couldn't speak any more. His hands were already working their way across my
thighs. He smiled at my silence, at my reaction, and then we exchanged that look.
Yes, that look, the one couple's share that silently says,
it's been a whole week of nothing at all. Could it finally happen tonight?
We understood the unspoken message written in our bodies and kissed again, deeper this time.
I closed my eyes and let myself be carried away by him. The temperature rose sharply,
like in a calorimeter. Not because I had forgotten to pay the electricity bill,
and they'd cut off our power, even for the air conditioning.
Our caresses grew bolder and more intense. My sleeprobe, not the passion killing granny kind,
nor anything childish, but the one with a stubborn smear of raspberry and cherry baby purée,
which I swear I washed before putting it on, seemed, in the eyes of a man as starved
for sex as I was, like the sexiest dress in the world. His hands, those of a psychiatrist,
used to jotting down notes about other people's neuroses, were now writing poetry on my skin.
My kisses carried the delicate precision of a perfectly catalyzed enzymatic reaction,
and he responded with the exactness of someone who spent years studying human behavior.
Our lips met again and again between every touch, and for a moment, we weren't exhausted parents
of three adorable little troublemakers, we were simply two adults with our own needs,
a man and a woman guided by natural sexual physiology. My scientific mind switched off
completely, and my healthy perversions took over. We were entering what I'd call the
protein denaturation phase, if you'll allow me that biochemical metaphor for the moment.
There we were, on our bed, behind a closed door, skin against skin after shedding our clothes,
sharing kisses far more lustful than anything from a lemon or etchy anime scene,
something almost hentai but without the porn. Those kisses tasted of red wine, dark chocolate,
freshly picked strawberries and nostalgia, of longing laced with delicate little touches
that could illustrate a chapter from Delta of Venus. Our breath came in gasps, our words scarce
but sincere, I need you today, not tomorrow, today. It was a feeling akin to what one might describe
as the body whispering before it screams, where kisses, tongues included, are no longer just
kisses, but promises, where hands remember old maps, where the entire world shrinks to skin,
to breath, to heat rising like a tide. We were there, and then, like revelry at dawn,
like the ever reliable, ever present nemesis of conjugal intimacy. Through the baby monitor,
the very one binyamin had turned back on after I'd switched it off, we heard the most
anti-erotic sound in the known universe. It was a scream as if someone were yanking out
one of our children's teeth without anesthesia, not a dramatic sigh, not that at all, but a raw,
desperate wail tangled with panicked crying. It was a scream that shattered the silence
like a scene from a horror film instantly my mother brain kicked in, flashing the following
diagnostics. One, maximum volume. Two, emergency, possible infant apocalypse. Three, immediate action
required. Binyamin and I froze, almost petrified in the very heart of Eros's reign, where the G spot
and K point are the true sovereigns. We stood there like lab rats startled by an auditory stimulus.
Even though my mind registered the situation, even though logic whispered its reasons,
I chose emotion, I chose need, and deliberately blocked the guilt that tries to creep in when
you prefer sex over your child's cry. Inside my head, I could practically hear myself saying,
no, not now. We're on the ascending curve. Calling this off would be biologically unjust
and utterly unnecessary. Keep going. I whispered to Binyamin, gently biting his ear.
Nothing serious is happening. Maybe he just woke up because he dreamt his favorite dinosaur ate his
ice cream. You'll see, he'll be back asleep in five minutes. I clung to his neck and wrapped
my legs around his back like a belt, holding on tight. Rebe, Binyamin murmured, his forehead
resting against my shoulder, his tongue tracing my skin, breath coming in short gasps,
he was just as heated as I was. I love you. I desire only you. Your body and your being
are more than enough for me. I miss you, always. Even if we have sex or not, these feelings
stay in me because I've told you more than once, though you refuse to believe me,
that in my own way, I'm heterodemisexual. But that, but, it hit me like an interruption,
the kind we'd lived through more than once. I don't need to remind you, we can't just
leave it like this. It's our responsibility, even though there are others here who could help.
One of the three might actually be sick. Pediatric illnesses don't send warnings,
or maybe they're having nightmares, even if it's just about their gluttonous
dinosaurs stealing their ice cream, or perhaps they simply need to see us,
to breathe in our skin again, to feel safe. My husband looked at me with a mixture of
frustrated desire and infinite tenderness. And I, well, sometimes I make that face.
Seriously, now? But deep down, I know he's right. He gave me one mega kiss and a chase
little caress, as if those gestures alone could recharge his paternal batteries,
and kept explaining gently until I finally let him go. Or, he added, voice steady,
maybe one of our children just needs us. And then came the phrase that can,
though not always, extinguish even the fiercest desire. They might need us, Reb.
His overdeveloped professional ethics and paternal instinct,
worse than a pregnant woman's intuition, meant that after that fleeting display of
affection and longing, I released him. He sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath,
very deep, trying to rein in his pent-up interrupted urges. In the dark,
he fumbled for his pants and put them on backwards, not even bothering to grab his
glasses, and hurried out to find out what was wrong. From the sound of that cry,
I knew it was mesonic. Binyamin is more rational, and I'm more visceral, especially in the hormonal
and emotional cross currents of our sex life. That's why he stopped. Gently.
Enough to make my own rising heat subside, too, slowly, not abruptly. Because he always says,
not just as a psychiatrist, but as my husband, that sudden, violent interruptions during
consensual sex can breed frustration, tangle negative emotions with unfounded
suspicions of rejection or even imagined infidelities that don't exist,
and dangerously drop endorphin levels, threatening both mental and emotional well-being.
I tried to ignore the sabotaging cry of one of our children.
After all, I had every right to be objective, even selfish, because I was in my territory.
I thought the wailing would fade in a couple of minutes if we simply didn't respond.
But Binyamin, once again, drew upon his mental health training. He knows when to stop and
when to go on. He's always been this way, ever since the very first time we made love
after our wedding. And he didn't teach me this. He let me learn it from him. This way of being,
of knowing how to measure himself, of carrying an internal thermometer for prioritizing what
matters at any given moment. For him, there's time for everything, even for sex infused with
deep feeling and even for quick functional sex that might superficially resemble mutual masturbation,
aimed only at relieving a physiological need, though in truth, it's never just that.
I wanted to tell him that children have survived millions of years of evolution without helicopter
parents. But I didn't say a word, not only because he'd already left the room, not even
giving me a chance to stage a half-hearted protest, but because his words had been a whisper that
pulled me back to our past, to the time before babies. They might need us.
He knows, not just from his advanced training, that a child's stress-induced cortisol doesn't
just dissipate on its own. Untended crying isn't whimsy or tantrum, it's always a signal.
And even though the sexual part of his body was screaming,
yes, I want just a little more of my wife's body, his father's soul shouted louder,
go, Benjamin, go. Only a few minutes passed before he returned. He locked the bedroom door,
turned off the baby monitor, and sat on the edge of the bed.
See, I said, it was unnecessary to stop everything.
Ms. Nick woke up because he had a cramp in his right calf, he replied calmly.
Did you use one of your pulse-based, anti-crying therapies to put him back to sleep in seconds?
I asked, teasing. When I got to the room, Ms. Nick wasn't even in his crib,
Izekiel had him in his arms. The moment I told my brother to go rest and that I'd take over,
he just laughed and said I should go back and finish what I'd so nicely started with you.
Rebe, he told me to leave his nephew in peace with him. He said he hadn't even turned on the
monitor in his room. He'd heard our son's desperate cry from down the hall and figured
we'd fallen asleep from exhaustion. But when he saw how I walked into the room, half dressed,
flustered, pants on backward, chest bare, cotton mid-heat, receiving a direct order from his
older twin brother, barely two hours his senior. I imagine it exactly as my husband described it,
his brother speaking in that unmistakable tone shaped by decades of marriage to his wife,
a private Spanish teacher with a distinctly Uruguayan flair.
Go back to your room, lock the door, go fulfill your wife, go fulfill yourself.
Don't miss the appointment you have with her. Obey. For your own good, for both your sakes.
You of all people, a psychiatrist, know this perfectly well. At that reply,
Benjamin didn't even let me speak. He just lifted his gaze and in his citronella-colored eyes,
I saw the same spark as before. Where were we? he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Nowhere. I've already put my sleep robe back on, I answered,
feigning denial, even annoyance, because I still felt he'd prioritized Ms. Inix's
cry over our moment of intimacy. He laughed at that. Then he asked, did you put your panties back
on too? I know that laugh of his well. It's the one he uses when he couldn't care less about
what I'm saying because he already knows exactly what I'm feeling. And right there,
mid-smile, he dropped a line that made me leap out of bed, straddle his lap,
and yank off my robe again. When one of our kids inevitably cries at the exact moment things
between you and me get hot, spicy, and interesting, the sex doesn't pause. It just goes into to be
continued mode with even more intensity. That was reason enough to dive back into our coital
mischief. Now with even better odds, the monitor switched off, a temporary caregiver who wouldn't
strip us of our parental responsibility or worth just because we'd entrusted him with his
nephew for a few minutes, the door locked, our bodies half undressed, and, as a bonus,
an intense session of tauntrick prelude. And what followed was, well, one of those rare
sessions that remind you exactly why you chose to marry this person in the first place.
It was slow, tired, utterly real, and deeply intimate. Not driven merely by the urge to couple,
but by a need to reconnect. To remember who we are beyond the title of parents.
It was a wordless way of saying, I'm here. I choose you. I love you. I need you.
Not just to keep being parents, but to keep being husband and wife.
It might sound like pure idealism, but no, this is something profoundly real when you
actually live it. We didn't watch the sunrise like in a movie that polishes reality with
fantasy just to glamorize romance. But falling asleep wrapped in each other's arms, sharing
that quiet, implicit therapy of skin to skin contact, didn't make us forget our role as
parents to three tiny dictators ruling our home. On the contrary, it reinforced that
essential layer of our partnership, the one that too often gets lost amid hundreds of excuses,
including diaper changes, excuses we sometimes invent ourselves, searching for someone else to blame
so we can walk away innocent and unscathed. We looked at each other, we laughed, and against
all odds, against every ounce of accumulated exhaustion, we picked up right where we'd left off,
even rewinding a little to begin again. That interruption, as Benjamin later said,
reminded us once more that a couple's bond must be cared for, nourished and protected,
like a delicate cell culture in its own exclusive petri dish.
He said that by mourning, we'd be parents again, the referees of sibling corals,
the possums carrying our young on our backs, the wrenches tightening the
bolts on our children to guide them back on track. We'd be professional disaster cleaners
because the moment they're freshly changed, they're already crawling through the garden,
turning our neat little picture into chaos while patience pours over us from head to toe.
But in the stillness of the early hours, it was just us doing one thing without neglecting the other,
being spouses without ceasing to be parents. That time was incredibly satisfying,
not because of intensity, but because of presence. We weren't performing a script of perfect passion,
we were simply being parents, human and lovers all at once. We spoke plainly,
without drama, about our sexual needs being met, however briefly, and quietly scheduled our next
intimate appointment, perhaps not in the same place or at the same hour, but always through
the same channel, each other. Maybe not in the same clothes or with the same urgency,
but still saying to each other, would you like to try something more these days,
even if it might end in another failed attempt or one cut short halfway through?
Because that phrasing carries far less pressure and arrogance than blurting out,
hey, when are we finally having sex, isn't it about time?
And he reminded me, not as a reproach, but as a tender recollection of the times when I,
in the middle of making love, in the very fire that turns our bodies to ash,
only to resurrect us with renewed strength, have been gripped by cramps so severe,
they forced us to stop everything. Of course, I know this well,
because just like Mesonik, I've also been seized by a cramp, only without sounding dramatic,
just realistic, mine can sometimes be life-threatening. If Binyamin or someone who knows how to drive one
of our cars doesn't rush me to the ER to hook me up to a calcium infusion pump for my hypocalcemia,
I could actually go into cardiac arrest. Binyamin also recalled the times when he,
on the very brink of orgasm, seconds from release, had to abruptly stop because an unbearable headache
struck, one of those inherited oral migraines he can't ignore, or those moments when,
just as he was about to moan, everything ended in seconds because I was suddenly
overwhelmed by an urgent, uncontainable need to pee. Or worse, back when we didn't even know we were
about to become parents to our first child, Yudal, blessed be his memory, there was that one time
I actually vomited right onto my husband's bare chest. Whether it was the overwhelming excitement
of the moment, mixed with a lethal surge of gestational hormones, or perhaps the body's
desperate way of signaling the presence of a third soul already forming between us,
I don't know. But it triggered such a violent wave of dizziness and nausea that the reflex took
over and we had no choice but to stop. That morning, as we dressed our twin boys,
our birthday girl already ready, Binyamin fussed over Mizinik a little extra,
pampering him gently because of the calf cramp, while I braided Shabtai's hair as he
chattered away to his beloved plastic chicken about who knows what.
Then Binyamin caught my eye, gave me a wink, and smiled, a smile that carried the memory
of what had happened in the wee hours, a silent reminder that being parents and being
spouses isn't an exact science. But it IS science in the end.
And here comes the reflection, dear visitors to this virtual home. You who are surely
reading this right now, maybe hiding in the bathroom while your own children wreak havoc in
the living room, many couples repeat the same idea over and over. Our intimacy is ruined
because young kids are always interrupting us. It's true that parenting brings exhaustion,
chaotic schedules, and fewer private corners. But to believe that children are the sole reason
for a paused sex life? For me, that's a myth. My husband, who helped me craft this post,
mentioned that when he hears in his practice about what happens in marriages,
where couples live alone and don't have young children at home, he recognizes certain patterns.
He often tells them that even they, at times, must pause an intimate encounter,
and that this doesn't signify coital failure or a step backward in their relationship.
It's entirely normal for the body to react this way, especially when a sudden
symptom arises, an underlying illness, an unexpected health issue, or a serious condition
that surfaces during sex. The reasons? They're varied and, above all, deeply human.
Midway through intimacy, it could be a muscle cramp, a nosebleed, an unstoppable bout of
hiccups, suspicious tachycardia, trapped intestinal gas, testicular or ovarian torsion,
an unusually sharp chest pain, or an episode of GERD, even a surprise period arriving with
unbearable cramps as an unwelcome bonus, uterine contractions, or any physical discomfort that
simply forces you to stop. Sometimes exhaustion weighs more than anticipated, and the body just
doesn't respond without this being a sign of sexual dysfunction. And then there are emotional
factors, a sudden wave of worry, a painful memory, an intrusive thought that shatters the mood
entirely. There are also everyday surprises, a phone ringing urgently, a domestic accident,
an accidental bump against the bed frame, or an elbow jabbed into your partner.
And, of course, there's the most essential element of all, consent. If in the middle of intimacy,
one partner feels they no longer wish to continue, that alone is reason enough, and it
must be respected without questioning, guilt, or pressure. The key here is to understand that
interruptions are part of intimate life, with or without young children, because we are human beings,
sexual, yes, but also vulnerable to all kinds of unexpected moments. What truly makes the
difference in a relationship isn't why things pause, but how the couple handles it,
with understanding, with humor, without drama or blame. Debunking the myth that children are the
sole ruiners of intimacy helps us see more clearly what's really at stake, communication, patience,
and the willingness to reconnect at another time. After all, sexuality in marriage isn't measured
by the absence of interruptions, but by how you build and rebuild it, again and again,
within the messy, beautiful reality of daily life. And, in fact, my husband even offered me a reference
to Tango when he said that this musical form isn't just about steps, it's a bodily dialogue where
partners play with lead and response. The two-four rhythm, with its phrasing of pauses and accents,
conveys tension and release, something deeply sensual, rhythmic, and inherently consensual,
and acts shared between two bodies, listening to each other in motion.
Many interpret it through the metaphor of courtship, a private dialogue between partners,
attraction, the tension between two equal and intertwined forces. It's not rooted merely
in passion or seduction, but in physical closeness, paired with suggestive movement,
often charged with unmistakable sexual or at least erotic tension. Tango doesn't
rely on big leaps or dramatic spins. Instead, it unfolds through gliding steps, long pauses,
sudden breaks, and intricate legwork, like baleos and gonchos, that whisper rather than shout
desire. Thus, Tango, as a metaphor for intimate connection within a committed relationship,
is a dance of surrender, of attunement, of dialogue between two bodies seeking to move in
harmony. Perfect, yes, but like all dances, it never occurs in a vacuum. It's shaped by context,
woven into the fabric of real life, the sudden cry of a young child, a worry that crashes into
your mind uninvited, the doorbell ringing at the worst possible moment, or even an ill-timed
memory, a sharp pain that forces you to stop, a whispered, wait, I can't go on. All of these
inevitably interrupt the dance. Yet, when the tango pauses, it doesn't mean the music has failed,
the silence doesn't ruin the choreography, it merely suspends it. The true challenge lies
in understanding that interruption is part of shared life, and that the rhythm can be resumed
later without losing its essence, its complicity, or the small sustaining acts of intimacy that keep
the dance alive. In this sense, a noise or an interruption, whether literal or symbolic,
should never be seen as an ending, but rather as a reminder that desire coexists with responsibility,
with the unforeseen, and with the fragile texture of everyday life. Sensuality does
not vanish in the pause, it simply transforms, waits, ripens, and sometimes returns with even
greater intensity. Tango, like intimacy, demands neither perfection nor uninterrupted flow.
After all, daily life isn't a ballroom competition. What it truly asks for is presence,
attentiveness, and the willingness to find each other again, even after an interruption,
an unfinished act, or what might feel like a failure. What makes something truly sensual,
what leads us to a consensual, fulfilling sexual connection,
is not dancing without pauses, but daring to pick up the rhythm again and again.
And I loved his response, so professional, so quintessentially psychiatric, and I,
as always, the gossipy copycat, want to add a few more things to this piece.
Do you know what the real problem is? We wait until 10.47pm to connect. During the day,
we're like two ships passing in the kitchen, exchanging logistical updates about clothes that
no longer fit the kids, and medical appointments, as if we're coworkers, not the passionate lovers
who stood before the altar and vowed to be each other's forever. Intimacy doesn't begin when
the children fall asleep. It begins with that affectionate pat on the butt while making breakfast,
with that suggestive text message sent during a quiet moment at work, him and his office,
you and yours, with that knowing glance when the toddler flings an entire meal onto the floor,
and instead of arguing over who cleans it up, you both burst out laughing as you tidy up
together, one of you wiping the mess off your child's face and hands, he's still learning
to eat so low, the other scrubbing the floor that had just been mopped to mirror-like perfection
with disinfectant. If you're reading this and it's been months since you've truly connected,
even to decide what to have for dinner, if you constantly use your kids as an excuse,
if I'm too tired, has become your daily mantra, then take a real, honest look at your lives
and your priorities. There should be no shame or fear in admitting something's off. On the contrary,
remind each other again and again of this essential truth. Before you became mom and dad,
you were two adults who chose each other. With the clear exception, of course,
of forced marriages, which still exist, not just as plotlines in Turkish soap operas or foreign indie
films that tackle the raw, painful reality of arranged unions with unflinching honesty,
the children are not the problem. The problem is that we use any excuse to avoid truly connecting
because, I'll say it again, intimacy doesn't begin when we turn off the lights,
it also begins with foot massages after an exhausting day. With that routine call to ask,
do you need anything from the supermarket? With the way he looks at you while you excitedly
explain something from your professional world? In my case, maybe my latest experiment with
recombinant proteins? And that look instantly tells you he's faking it, pretending to understand
every word just to keep you talking. As I told my neighbor when I pulled out my wallet,
the one where I keep a card holder with all the important numbers, if you can't connect through
the small, daily gestures, if interruptions have become the perfect excuse not to touch each other,
if your go-to blame is that you work 24 hours a day and the mythical 25th hour is reserved
only for sleep, never even side-by-side, never embracing, if there's no energy or rest left
to laugh together or say I love you, then please seek help. Seek out a psychotherapist,
a family counselor, a deeply human person, someone wise who has walked a similar path.
Not a support group that, instead of offering real support, ends up intensifying the pattern
of sexual voids in couples. It's fine to vent, of course, but too often these spaces have normalized
and even romanticized the identity of the self-sacrificing parent or mother who,
out of a misunderstood notion of love, extinguishes their partnership and their inherent
human sexuality. Don't turn to some internet guru or to a so-called expert who monetizes
other people's pain just to later sell them an overpriced book worth far less than a genuine session
with a qualified professional. And please don't look for answers in AI, no matter how grounded
in serious scientific research it may be, as is the case with Anthropics Claude.
Avoid unloading your heart on X, TikTok, Instagram, and the like. Platforms where
those offering advice often lack real experience, and more often than not, so division, even in places
where divorce doesn't legally exist and erect walls of ice between partners, snuffing out every
last ember of warmth. Because yes, I took my neighbor's hand as she began to cry, and I
told her that if she wished, I could connect her with a specialist, someone very close to us,
a trusted colleague of my husband's, an expert, and exactly the issue she and her partner are facing,
a sexologist. All of us who are parents of growing children are part of the same survival
experiment. The difference lies in those who choose to stay calm, who refuse to blame each other,
to wound one another, and who can even smile through it all. Sincerely, yes, I know,
this may sound like heresy, sacrilege, even a mortal sin in the club of exhausted mothers,
but as an exhausted mother myself, I can still answer when asked, as my neighbor did,
seeking my own perspective, not just her own thoughts echoed back through my lips.
Reeb, do you love your husband, and does he love you? If she was direct, then I owed her
the same honesty. I couldn't simply say I understand you, because truthfully, I didn't,
not fully. I could understand the fatigue, the temporary frustration over those fragmented,
abbreviated moments of romance and sex lost in the whirlwind of raising children,
but I could not understand using a newborn just months old as an excuse, as a scapegoat.
That, as I told her, is truly harmful to her marriage, to their shared journey as parents,
to the very foundation of their home, because a child enters this world with a blameless record,
utterly clean, utterly innocent. There is no guilt in them, none at all.
The real problem isn't the ill-timed cry. It's that we let our connection with our partner
fade throughout the day. We stop looking at each other. We stop brushing against one another for
no reason. We stop whispering silly, tender nothings in each other's ears while washing the dishes.
We no longer share a cup of tea in silence, just feeling, deeply, that the other is there.
We don't read together. We don't watch movies together. We don't watch sports together,
even if one of us doesn't care for it. Not out of obligation, but as an act of empathy,
respect for the other's joy, and balance in the relationship.
We've stopped laughing together at the absurdity of raising tiny humans who swear carrots or celery
stocks are potent poisons or biological weapons of mass destruction. Sexual intimacy doesn't begin
in bed. It begins in the hallway, when they steal a quick kiss before heading off to work.
It begins in the kitchen, when they wrap their arms around you from behind as you stir the soup.
It begins in the bathroom, when they laugh at your wet, messy hair and say,
you're still the sexiest woman in the world, even with that zombie face.
It begins when they hide your underwear and makeup in places you can't reach,
not just because of height, but as a playful tease.
Or when they deliberately screw the jam jar lid on so tight, you have to ask for help,
after first insisting with mock pride that you don't need assistance with something so simple.
If you don't nurture that, if you let the logistics of parenting, the bills, the wet wipes,
the diapers, meal schedules, vaccines, the pediatrician, devour every last trace of complicity between
you, then yes, any child's cry will become the perfect excuse to never return to what you started.
So this idea, my house is impossible. This belief that interruptions are the rule,
not the exception. This resignation to seeing yourself as roommates rather than lovers
is, in truth, deeply wrong. It's wrong even when you do have a whole household of
understanding people around you, like we do now and have for some time. Because long before we
all lived under one roof, before my in-laws, my siblings, my brothers and sisters-in-law,
my earthquake nephews, and even my own parents moved in to help me rise again after everything
that happened, Binyamin and I lived alone with Yudel, blessed be his memory. And even then,
we had to make it work, sinking work schedules, caring for our son while our entire extended
family lived far away, even in other countries, creating moments that could lead us to intimacy,
even when we knew not every encounter would end in satisfying orgasms, accepting romantic
invitations that meant eating dinner at the kitchen table with Yudel in our arms,
just to keep our bond alive. So yes, I speak from experience. I know what I'm talking about.
But if you feel you can't even share a single minute of complicity each day,
if distance has become routine, if exhaustion is used to justify disconnection,
then please seek help. Seeing a professional isn't a sign of failure or weakness,
it's not admitting defeat, it's an investment in your relationship. Just like buying your partner
a thoughtful gift, not because it's a birthday or anniversary, but simply to show the depth
of your feelings. That kind of gesture is an act of courage, of love, of commitment,
a conscious choice to reconnect as you once did when you made love without external safeguards
against sexual failure, trusting each other completely. Raising children is beautiful,
yes, but you shouldn't have to pay the price of losing each other in the process,
not when you can choose to be parents and spouses, husband and wife, a couple,
and that couple deserves space. They deserve caresses, they deserve kisses and a nice
nins-style moments, even if sometimes you must pause them, sue the cry, and return to them
with even greater tenderness or a more visceral intensity that doesn't destroy,
but instead gives you strength to keep going. Freerom within a partnership that includes children
remains the same, only now with certain terms and conditions. That doesn't mean your love
doesn't deserve protection and celebration. Don't let it drown in excuses. I believe
that my husband and I, a biochemist and a psychiatrist, decided long ago to run our own
life experiment, and though the results are often unpredictable, even unimaginable,
our hypothesis remains unchanged. Together, as a couple, as a man and a woman who united long
before becoming parents, we can move forward, even with a supportive extended family around us,
even with three tiny saboteurs constantly interrupting our most intimate moments.
To close, don't let the crying interrupt the tango, that beautiful, sensual dance
full of nuance, capable of expressing the deepest layers of connection within your sexual sphere.
Well, I think I'll end my personal reflection here for today.
Thank you for accompanying me from the first word to the last.
May my creator and sustainer grant my husband and I the grace to share with you again
should life offer us another opportunity. A strong embrace, and may you have an
excellent day filled with peace in every corner. Bye-bye.