In most partnerships, before children come along, (at least) one family member plays a non-trivial role in the happiness, decision-making process, and schedule of the household.  When children come along, this household member takes a tumbling, decidedly non-slippery slide into anonymity.

Though a non-voting member of the micro-society (except by proxy), it once had a place at the table.  And against the refrigerator.  And in bed, and across the desk of what will never again be the home office.

When a child arrives, It becomes a displaced person.    And for the time being, not even the most quixotic NGO is interested is interested in repatriating it.

Oh, woe to the parental penis.

Quoth the sleep-deprived, nipple-sore, vomit-stained, prematurely-aged,

Surrepticiously-regretful mother:  “are you out of your freaking mind?”  Also, “nevermore.”  At least until Father’s Day.  Maybe not then either.

It’s been brought to my attention that some new mothers are mean because we are paying insufficient attention to the lonely household member and giving way to cranio-labial dissociation.

Really?  Well said, Sherlock.

Until you’ve expelled a cat-sized, omniurnal human from your erstwhile coochie (renovated to baby hole), you are as qualified to comment on this as Christine O’Donnell is to teach fractal geometry.

I’m talking to you, Emily Kaiser of the Washington City Paper.

Unsurprisingly, so went my own marriage after childbirth, expelling its most well-intentioned member.  Nor was it able to recover sufficiently to stay together.  A divorce, six hundred batteries, and several dire lessons learned from innocent Salon.com flirtations later, I’m happily remarried.  And I had the chance to regain a sex life without having to work with another person to, well, ride the slippery slope back to connubial door barricading.

My journey from post-partum sexual armadillo to enthusiastic partner didn’t require me to build a bridge—it involved a massive leap into an unrecognizable place, and a blind climb back toward something I couldn’t see.  This makes me profoundly unqualified to comment on whether any mom, urban or otherwise, is making a sufficient effort to get back in the saddle again.  What I do know, Emily and titillated commenters, is somebody or a vast sea of somebodies isn’t necessarily working to earn these mothers' considerable charms.  Both members of any marriage have to play nice if any other member has a chance to get back to the table.  Or up against the refrigerator.  Or behind the couch after he cries uncle and watches a Carey Mulligan movie with her.