If you’ve seen the Austin Powers films you’ll no doubt remember Dr Evil’s fear of Austin’s “mojo”. Apparently if it weren’t for that ferocious “mojo” the Dr could triumph with his evil plans for world domination. In order to rid himself of this road block to diabolic greatness he dispatches Fat Bastard to steal the monumental mojo. This is achieved with the help of a nasty looking mojo sucking syringe while our hero was distracted by the minx Ivana Humpalot.
I think Dr Evil must have pulled a similar trick with me in 2009. This time, instead of Fat Bastard he used my Mini-mes to do the dirty deed. All I know is that after having my second child my mojo went AWOL. Co-incidence? I think not.
I’m five and a half years into the mothering caper. The past three years have been misspent wrangling two little ones. I’m chronically exhausted. All of my bedroom fantasies involve collapsing into sensuous crisp clean sheets and snoring. Sleeping Beauty has become my favourite fairy tale. The concept of a princess slumbering for 100 years is very appealing to me right now. If I were in Sleeping Beauty’s position I would tell any handsome prince with the gall to kiss me awake to “Sodd off!” I’d make an exception in the unlikely event that the prince were Michael Fassbender but only if he offered a cappuccino with his rousing pash. Make that a large cappuccino with sugar and chocolate dusting.
While exhaustion is a great excuse for my waning libido, it only partially explains my mojo’s disappearance. Back in the Jurassic era before I had kids, I could work long hours all week and still have a little spark left by Friday. The real problem is that with young children there’s an intimacy overload which like Fat Bastard’s weapon sucks the mojo out of you.
The primary carer spends every waking hour in physical contact with the kids. There’s constant hugging, kissing the hurts better, comforting, nappy changing and bottom wiping. Catering to their ongoing diva like demands is more challenging than working for Naomi Campbell. They are perpetually requiring food and drink but woe betide you if you dare to serve up their fruity snack in the wrong coloured bowl or their milk is not at the precise temperature. Heads will roll for such incompetence. I can’t be sure but I’d imagine that even the harried staff of spoiled super models get to eat without their bosses sitting on them. I’m quite certain they are allowed to take care of their personal toileting uninterrupted. By comparison with full-time parenting dealing with Naomi Campbell and her ilk is a playful romp in the park.
When finally my kids are tucked up in their beds of an evening all I want is a little time to enjoy my own space free of demands. I’ve had my girls climbing me like a tree all day and the last thing I feel like is my husband doing the same thing. Of course I still adore the man and find him very attractive. It pains me to think that he might be feeling rejected and unloved because of my mojo has escaped the building. I do my best to make sure his needs are met because he is a wonderful husband and father. Marriage is give and take or so the cliche goes. Nevertheless keeping everybody happy would be much easier if my mojo walked back through the front door like the prodigal son. So Dr Evil, if you have used my mini mes to extract my mojo I’d like it returned. How does one million dollars sound to you?
Has your mojo mysteriously disappeared since having kids?