“What did they just say?” My husband bellowed from his seat on the couch as he looked over at our son.

“Nothing!” my son shrieked and covered his tablet screen.

YouTube was a funny thing. Even though his choice viewings were toy demonstrations and the occasional Lego Batman short, different videos managed to sneak in under suggestions. In this particular Lego Batman and Robin joint, Batman decided to call Robin a douchebag, loud and clear as a bell. The previews always looked totally kid friendly, leaving us as shocked as he was when he stumbled upon something outside of the realm of PG.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t know it was bad,” our son wailed as my husband and I shot each other a headshake. It really wasn’t his fault. YouTube was a lousy and irresponsible babysitter—but that was on us. Our son could sit on the couch ping-ponging from video to video for hours while we got stuff done around the apartment. Luckily, the sound was always ear-splittingly loud, no matter how many times we yelled at him to turn it down. It was helpful when the Justice League had a sneaky potty mouth.

“It’s okay,” I soothed and rubbed his back. “You just have to be careful, okay?”

He nodded back with a watery gaze. Technology was wonderful and awful all at once, especially when you had young children who knew how to use it better than you did.

I trudged to my bedroom, massaging the crook in my neck as I walked. The biggest parenting failure I could claim was that I slept with two guys every night. Not in the hot ménage sort of way. My husband and I slept on the edges of opposite sides of the bed while my big chooch of a son lay straight across the mattress. Each night, we made a family unit letter H.

This had never been our intention. We were those parents who let him cry it out in his crib, where he couldn’t climb out. Eventually, he gave up and soothed himself to sleep. Then came the blessed day he got his ‘big boy bed’ without rails. Each night he moseyed out of his room at ten o’clock and plopped himself on the couch as though it were mid-afternoon. We’d walk him back, and moments later he’d come back out. Rinse and repeat.

I thought lying down with him and sneaking out after a few minutes would work. And it did until I started falling asleep before him. Each morning at two o’clock I’d make the sad stroll from his room to mine, tiptoeing like a cat burglar. Somehow, he ended up in our bed and has been there ever since.

We were aware this was bad for a plethora of reasons. He was getting too old, he was getting too big, and any nocturnal activities we used to enjoy simply no longer happened since there were fifty pounds of cockblocking child between us. But each night when I vowed this would be it, this would be when we stopped this nightly madness—I didn’t. I had work the next day, as did my husband. Tired parents were the devil’s workshop in so many ways. I regretted the judgmental stares I gave parents brave enough to admit their kid slept in their bed. They weren’t negligent, lazy, or pushovers. No. They just wanted to sleep. I felt them. So. Damn. Much.

I bent over to stuff something into one of my drawers when the door closed, and the lock clicked behind me. My husband brought his finger to his lips as he dipped his head toward the door one last time. After thirteen years, he was still pretty hot. The gray at his temples only made him more attractive—bastard—and after long imposed droughts, I caught myself ogling him from time to time. We’d learned to take advantage of these special moments when our son was distracted enough to not notice that both of us were gone and we had a few minutes to make something happen.

I was having a torrid affair with my husband. Inappropriate gropes and brushes against one another when no one was looking was how we rolled. Sex became five-minute gluttony, almost like sneaking bites of the chocolate cake in the refrigerator before anyone caught you. You dove in like a ravenous maniac, shoveling the sweet heaven into your mouth, knowing if you cut a human-sized piece and savored it, you’d enjoy it so much more. But even though you had to steal it and be quick about it, it was mother-effing delicious nonetheless.

Usually, in affairs, the thrill of getting caught is sexy—almost intoxicating. Except, in this case, it was terrifying. Because if we got caught, not only did we have to stop, we had to explain what we were doing. Like my school-age kid in bed with us wasn’t fodder enough for therapy, catching Daddy bending Mommy over the foot of the bed wasn’t something you could make an excuse for on the fly. Naked Heimlich maneuver? Even a seven-year-old wouldn’t buy that. It was a bridge I prayed I never had to cross.

“God, you feel so good,” he whispered in my ear before licking a trail down my neck. Foreplay was turning the lock on the door. Romance was the wink after he tested it. I was ready instantly as was he; years of training made it instinctual. I strained my ear to see if I could hear our son in the living room. What I was afraid of the most was having to answer the question, “Where were you when he broke this/hurt himself/figured out the lock on the door and strolled out?”

We got into a groove, and it was glorious. Who cared that bedtime activities didn’t take place in our actual bed? Several minutes had gone by, and I’d almost trained my brain to forget about the “what ifs” beyond the closed door. Trying to stay in the moment while straining to hear what your kid was doing in the other room really put a damper on things—if you weren’t the sneaky professionals we were. I could hear our son giggling at whatever the hell he was watching and hoped nothing questionable came up again, doubling my rotten parent atrocities for today.

Then, just as things were getting really, really good, the doorknob jiggled—loosely. I instantly panicked that our miniature Hercules managed to open it before we found our underwear.

“What are you guys doing in there?” the annoying kid asked as he continued to fiddle with the door.

“This kid is killing me,” my husband muttered under his breath as he pulled up his boxers and reached for his shirt.

I opened the door to my son’s pinched brows. “I was all by myself out there. You guys left me.” He wasn’t crying; he was indignant. That’s what happened when your kid was attached to your hip whenever he wasn’t at school. Sure, he never said a word to us as he got lost in the world of videos and LEGO, but how dare we leave him in a room by himself! This was turning out to be a long and excruciating eighteen years with Il Duce. Although even the original of the most famous Italian dictators gave his parents a second alone once in a while. This one wouldn’t budge an inch.

I said the only thing I could, all while wondering if my shorts were on backwards.

“I’ll be right in, baby.”

I looked back at my husband and chuckled at his defeated laugh.

“Bathroom in a half an hour?” He quirked an eyebrow.

This child outsmarted his adult parents on a daily basis. If the frustration and fatigue didn’t make me so weak, I’d do a slow clap. Our son had a future as a lawyer. Since the day he started speaking, we’d had yet to win a single case.