TheDailyWTF

How To Tell You're Married...

05-08-09 - 7:53 a.m.

The following tale is 100% true (with some added adjectives for the purpose of making it more interesting than it is) and is a stunning example of MARRIED WITH CHILDREN.

The lifestyle...not the Fox sitcom.

Last night, I was having some truly great sex with my husband. "Truly great" is true...not an added adjective. I was on top which I only fully enjoy sometimes and last night was SOME TIME.

While I am riding my husband like a mechanical bull (naked from the waist down but still wearing my tank top and sweatshirt because that's how married people roll) I hear my eldest son Michael come down the stairs. I do not skip a beat, secure in the knowledge that A.) my bedroom door is locked and 2.) we have the TV loud enough to mask my husband's squeals of delight and C.) it is 11:15 PM, when the children should clearly be asleep giving me the added benefit of "responsible fucking" while children are in the house.

I hear him make a sandwich. Go into the bathroom. Come out of the bathroom and go back upstairs. I resume my vigorous humping feeling quite safe from all intrusions now that the single, token kid-visit-during-sex has come and gone like clockwork. My added gusto results in more manly squealing.

Then...we hear footsteps on the stairs again. Someone tiptoes into the bathroom, makes some noise, closes a cabinet. The flush of the toilet and we're already turning our complete attention back to fucking one anothers' brains out when...

::knock knock knock::

Nothing is funnier...and I mean NOTHING is funnier...than the sight of two parents hurriedly trying to detach their genitals and throw some clothes on when the kid knocks on the friggin' door. I scramble to get dressed feeling like the world's biggest goddamned pervert while my husband runs interference for me asking mild questions like..."What's up, buddy?" and "Hang on, Mom just tripped over the dog, give her a second to get the door."

When I finally got to the door, I found my youngest son standing in the dim of the quiet nighttime house with a sheepish grin on his face.

"Mom...it didn't go down."
"What didn't go down?"
"The gigantic turd I just took."

I ushered him toward the stairs and his bed, thinking I'd run in and give it the old second-flush and get back to the business of popping some rocks. But when I ventured into the bathroom...

There was a baby's arm in the toilet. I mean...at first I was horrified. Then, puzzled. I couldn't understand the physics of the fucking thing. how did THAT come out of my 10 year old's ass without causing internal bleeding and/or break his pelvis? THEN I realized I was going to have to do some surgery to get that thing to go down the bowl.

And by "surgery" I mean "chop up a huge kid-shit with a plunger at 11:30PM"

Motivated by the worry that my husband would quickly get bored and start watching the food network, I chopped the FUCK outta that thing. I was like the Julia Child of the turd world. I whacked away at the fucking poo like a champ and flushed it down the bowl, vowing to scrub the incredible skidmarks it left in the morning...

And returned to my bedroom, hopping right back on the amusement park ride that is my husband with a boner, completing the quest for mutual satisfaction.

Afterward, as we lay breathless and wrecked, my husband asks, "What the hell were you doing? You were out there forever."

"I had to cut up his turd. It was the size of a baseball bat."

"You had to cut up shit....and came back in here still ready to fuck?"

"Yup."

"Holy shit, I love you."

That's right you do, baby. I'm not like the other wives...