Sex. Love. Marriage.

Relationships are broken down into categories. I’ll start with the first one.

1. Sex. For Kelly and me, that part was easy. Shhh. Don’t tell her dad. He’s always hated me. No need to give him further evidence.

2. Love. I knew the moment Kelly punched me in the ear for stealing her car that I loved her. Which also leads back to her dad hating me, but whatever. There’s a good reason behind the car stealing. If you ask her, probably not.

If the sex and love work out, it usually ends in… drum roll, please…. You guessed it.

3. Marriage. Being married is ridiculously hard. Staying married, even harder. I can give you some advice, but you probably shouldn’t listen to me. I took advice from a porn star, took a tiny blue pill, and fell through a shower door. I’d like to never remember that night again.

Somewhere along this terrifying journey of marriage and parenthood—my swimmers made five of the little sh*ts, I mean angels-our relationship as husband and wife fell apart. I can pinpoint the exact moment, as you’ll soon see, but that’s what leads me to this.

Sex. Love. Marriage. And all the chaos in between.

I’m not proud of what I resorted to at times and completely own my dumbass moments, but we’re friends, right? Proceed with caution.

1. Closets and Cheerios – Noah
(Don’t judge me. This could be you in ten years)

Do you see that half-naked guy sitting on the floor of his pantry eating Cheerios from the box? I know, hot right? Thank you. Thirty has treated me pretty well.
The bigger question to most of you might be why I’m on the floor in the pantry, half-naked, and eating Cheerios from the box, huh?
I’ll explain and maybe it’ll make more sense. Let’s go back about five minutes.
Okay, now, do you notice those two people on the floor? Yeah, they’re having sex. Trying to is more like it. Sex on a tile floor with limited space isn’t exactly easy. The movies lie.
“Jesus, Noah. That hurts.”
With a grunt, I look behind me at our tangled legs. “Then move your leg.”
“I can’t.” Kelly attempts to free her foot only to have it get stuck further. “It’s stuck in a basket.”
I kick the basket aside only to find there are five more beside it. It’s like one of those roadside farmer’s markets in here. “Why are there so many baskets in here?”
“Because it’s more organized that way. Our house is a constant mess. It’d be nice to keep one area clean.”
Now, this could be a snide remark against me. Probably is because I know I contribute to the mess sometimes, but I don’t want to think about that. Groaning, I attempt to change my position but have you ever had sex in a pantry closet with a box of Cheerios in front of you? I thought yellow was supposed to be calming? Or distracting? Whatever.
“Ow, you’re pulling my hair!”
I slap my hand over my wife’s mouth. “Stop talking. I can’t concentrate.” I know, I know. I shouldn’t have been so rough, but hey, at least with my hand over her mouth I’m not pulling her hair anymore.
She’s not pleased with me though and I’m given a scowl I can feel underneath my palm. I’m very familiar with this look. It’s similar to the one I got last night when I was brushing my teeth and she stuck her head in the sink for God knows what reason, and I spat toothpaste in her hair.
You might be wondering at this point why we’re on the floor in the pantry. Or, if you’re really focused on the details and noticed the box of Cheerios on the floor, you’re curious why that is. Well, we have kids who don’t put shit back where it belongs.
Why we’re on the floor in the pantry… far more interesting concept there, and circles back around to those messy little hoodlums we made who don’t put anything back. You see, when you’ve been married for ten years, looking at the possibility of divorce, you find it hard to find the spark again. That means taking the opportunities you’re given. If that means fucking on the floor in the pantry because seeing your wife wearing ridiculously expensive Lululemon tights I told her not to buy (a story for another day) while doing dishes got you hard, and you’re actually able to talk her into doing it in the pantry, then you take the crumbs you’re given, literally.
There, you’re all caught up. I know you’re probably wondering about the divorce part, but that’s a story for another day, for now, back to the sex.
It’s looking like we might actually finish before the kids get up and I have to leave for work. Adjusting my knees, I try to adjust our position only to have my wife yelp and squirm away from me. “Holy shit, it’s huge!”
I glance down at her, smirking. “That’s what she said.”
“Not you, dumbass.” She slaps me in the face. Right across my cheek. “There’s a spider on your shoulder!” It doesn’t slip past me that she could have easily squished the spider instead of hitting me in the face, but whatever. The longer you’re married, the more you’ll understand why she chose to slap me.
“Where?” I scream like a little girl. Even I’m alarmed at the pitch of my voice and wonder if my balls have disappeared. I check. Nope. Still there and looking pretty goddamn blue.
Fun fact. I do not like spiders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all man, but the sight of those creepy crawling black fuckers just freaks me the fuck out. I turn into something similar to someone who just got shot with a taser, all jerky and shit. It ain’t pretty.
In a matter of seconds, I’m on my feet, and accidentally kick my wife in the vag while trying to stomp a spider. After I box punch her, Kelly gasps and gives me the look. If you’re in a relationship, you know this look. It’s the one that slightly resembles her wanting to beat the shit out of me with a pillowcase full of rocks.
Just so we’re clear, I get this look daily, and while I end up killing the cock-blocking spider, this spectacular moment has also killed the mood. And so, all that insane shit I just shared with you, that explains why I’m sitting on the floor of the pantry eating Cheerios. By myself.
Now, you might be wondering how a good-looking man like me ended up with five kids and a wife. Or maybe you feel sorry for me because I haven’t had sex—other than a few minutes ago—in a month. Thirty. Two. Miserable. Days.
I’ve been counting.
“This fucking sucks,” I mutter, pushing the cereal away from myself.
The door to the pantry opens and Finley, our one-year-old, takes a drink of her milk and then spits it in my face. It’s her new thing. She thinks it’s hilarious. We’re working on it, but let’s face it, babies are assholes.
I fight the urge to grab her bottle and spit milk right back at her, and if you have kids, you know exactly what I’m talking about here. They can’t all be sweet all the time, and if anyone tells you their kid is perfect, they’re lying to you.
Wiping milk from my face with my hand, I glare at the baby. “You need to stop doing that.”
Like she’s going to listen to me. Pretty sure this kid came out thinking I was a nobody. With the nipple of her bottle now dangling from her lips, she smiles, as if she didn’t hear me. That’s another thing about babies. They have selective hearing. Don’t believe me? Say cookie and watch their face. Now, say no and look at the blank expression they give you.
Exactly my point, friends.