7 Things I Never Thought I'd Let My Husband See (Or Hear!) Me Do

To pee or not to pee? THAT is the question...To pee or not to pee? THAT is the question...I know the date of the first time I peed in front of my husband.

Oh sure, I've yelled at him to pull over during long trips and I've skedaddled to the back of the car to pee alongside the highway, but he couldn't see me.

But the very first time I allowed him to view me actually using the porcelain facilities was March of 2006. A full year-and-a-half into our marriage. I know because I blogged about it:

"Before I got married, I declared I absolutely WOULD NOT be one of those girls that performs all manner of bathroom ablutions in front of their betrothed. Peeing publicly was a right strictly reserved for my gaggle of girlfriends, particularly on those drunken nights out with the gal gang. And up until yesterday, I'd kept up my end of the pee pact. I've never seen The Surge pee. The same can't be said for boyfriends of yesteryear, but I'd hoped to maintain some sort of mystique for my husband. He is forced to observe me in all manner of compromising positions anyway, must he bear unfortunate witness to peeing too?

I'm certainly not embarrassed to pee in front of him…he's seen me expel all manner of vomit in the most atrocious way possible (filling the cupholders in my truck to the brim on the way home from the FOX Christmas Party 2004) Yes. I did. It's just that…the pee pact was an unspoken one…a gallant affording of respect from one spouse to another.

And most certainly if anything MORE than pee needs to be eliminated, I'm all about running the water, coughing strategically to mask any unpleasant splashing that may echo from our very small, acoustic bathroom, reverberating horrifyingly throughout our size small apartment.

But now our silent pee agreement is broken and it was I that pissed it away. Much the same way I can't reclaim my virginity, I can't go back."

Eight years into our marriage, I look back and laugh at silly old me bemoaning the broken pee pact. Anyone who has been married for more than a few years knows that any mystique your marriage holds in the early years goes out the window quicker than I can bolt from the room when Serge passes gas. Speaking of inner gasses, that's the first thing on my list of 7 things I never thought I'd let my husband see (or hear) me do. Check out the rest below:




istockphoto.comistockphoto.comOne-Gun Salute
I never thought I'd issue the ol' butt burp in front of my fella, but, well, sometimes they slip out, you know? And if you happen to be sitting next to your man on a leather couch in a quiet room, the sound can be a little louder than you anticipated. But at least I have the good sense to roll down the window in the car if I happen to float a particularly raunchy air biscuit... UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE I COULD NAME.







Related: 11 hilarious tips for undressing in front of your lover (circa 1937)








Monica BielankoMonica BielankoCreaming The 'Stache
At first glance I don't appear to be a hairy girl, but, girlfriend, I am. Not thick copious amounts. More like random, intense hair. I get crazy thick goat hairs, I call them, on my chin. I was so impressed with the Tom Selleck-like thickness of one that I once I made Serge feel it. He was not equally impressed. So yeah, he's seen me creaming my 'stache, which he damn well better appreciate after feeling the girth of that goat hair.







Monica BielankoMonica Bielanko Birth Vag
Before our first child, Violet, was born, I swore I wouldn't let my husband see the baby exit my mangled vagina. I blame Oprah. She had a show once where a bunch of husbands said they could never view their wives in the same way again after witnessing the carnage. But Serge was down there gandering mangled va-jay-jay the whole damn time. He claims he was more focused on the baby's head, something about watching the train coming and not the tunnel. I don't buy it. Somewhere, deep inside, he's GOT to be traumatized by what happened. Hell, I didn't see a thing and I'm still recovering from the single peep in the mirror I took three months after the stitches dissolved.








Stock PhotoStock PhotoThe Double Pump
Listen. I think breastfeeding is as great as the next person, but I will never feel au naturel whilst two milk jugs are hooked to my knockers and the distinct old-man-with-Emphysema wheezing of the breast pump fills the room. And yet I allowed my husband to see me expressing milk like a prize-winning Holstein. Maybe he thought it was hot - who knows what dudes think about that kind of stuff? I never asked. Also, I do not look as perky as this little lady. I'm usually slouched behind two boobs the size of hot air balloons as rolls of mottled, stretch-marked stomach skins rise like bread dough from the elastic waistband of my XXXL Old Navy stretch pants.







Related: Women are desperate to get married...and 16 more myths men believe









Stock PhotoStock PhotoSex With Aunt Flow
Some people don't care; they'll take action any way they can get it. Serge is one of these people. I am not. And yet I allowed him to dip the wick when Aunt Flow was in town. And the first time this occurred we weren't even at home...it was in a public place. And that's all I'm going to say about that. That's all you want me to say about that, believe me.









Monica BielankoMonica BielankoNipple Hair
Yeah, I have nipple hair. AND? Some women have hair there and some don't. It's just one of those things. Obviously, in my twenties, pre-marriage, I was meticulous about plucking. Now? Not so much. Eh. Whatever. You want some boob, buster, you're gonna have to deal with a hair or two.












Stock PhotoStock PhotoEar Cleaning
Gross. Just plain gross. But a few months ago I was really sick, and after the cold cleared up my ears were ringing for weeks. Well, someone said this Wax Removal stuff works wonders, and I needed help, and Serge came in to help me and... just... yeah. He helped me clean my ears.










- By Monica Bielanko
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Monica BielankoMonica BielankoMonica and Serge Bielanko have been married for eight years. Along the way they have practiced and perfected the dark arts of couch dining, clandestine boozing, bambino wrangling, wide-open domestic warfare, and modern love.



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