Sex and the City 2
**Warning - this article may contain spoilers
Sex and the City number one was a terrible movie for me. Our daughter, Polly, was just three months old and still being breastfed, when my wife’s mothers’ group had a daytime 'Sex fest' – the movie, then a boozy lunch.
I had to look after Polly and bottle feed her expressed milk. But, being extremely fussy, Polly refused to take the bottle and began an hours-long, nerve-shattering, hunger-induced scream. I desperately called my wife whose mobile was turned to silent and I still remember the sense of helplessness I felt standing at home holding this distraught and hungry child.
Eventually I called Mum who drove over and amazingly settled our daughter.
My wife emerged from the movie shocked at finding 10 missed calls. I was forced to sheepishly drive to the cinema so Polly could be breastfed. It was humiliating because, of all the fathers in the group, it was me who cracked and failed.
But Sex and the City 2 was fantastic. This time our baby boy, Charles, was three months old when the mothers planned another ‘‘Sex fest’’ for last week, this time for the evening. Everything went smoothly because Charlie’s an easy going little man and because we trained him to take a bottle . . . especially for the event.
It was during this training period that bad reviews for the movie came out. Though it was a predictable backlash, I was somewhat deflated. It seemed like we were going to an awful lot of effort for such a crap movie.
But on the night my wife went off, dressed up – for the first time since Charles was born – in a sleek, black dress.
She’d paraded several outfits to me and I had to choose. I chose, of course, the one that was most attractive to me. But on one condition: she wore it boldy. “No slouched shoulders,” I said.
Before my wife left I had one last check of her dress, but something was amiss. One breast was plunging out a little too far, even for my liking. ‘‘Oh, that’s the side I didn’t feed Charlie with last time,’’ she said, and adjusted it.
The girls swung by in a taxi to get my wife. Mum popped in just in case it was a disaster again, but Charlie and Polly went down easily. I had a lovely evening alone watching the NRL.
My wife came back at midnight and got into bed stinking of booze – a smell I now love because I never smell it anymore. I asked how the movie was. When she said it was great I assumed it was the champagne talking.
In the morning I asked how could she love a movie everyone said was appalling?
She said it was because she understood how Charlotte felt when she broke down and told Miranda how hard being a mother was. How all the girls cried when Big forgave Carrie for cheating with ex-boyfriend Aidan. How they all related when Carrie said that kissing Aidan was a reminder of her old, pre-married self. And how Charlotte's daughter’s tantrums were just like Polly’s.
The movie was surprisingly good, but from what my wife said, the after-party was even better. The group went to a bar and laughed. They spoke about stupid things such as ‘‘what is the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done?’’.
They talked, of course, about sex. One mother complained about her husband’s fussiness in bed. ‘‘He’s just like his son: ‘I want peas first, Mummy, then my potato, then the chicken’.’’
Preparing for the evening was a hassle; the movie also had bad reviews. But as a guy I saw the joy and fun it brought a group of mums.
Some say SATC has lost its relevance and the SATC girls haven’t moved on. But the movie seemed to speak to my wife and her friends: of trying to maintain some glamour with children; the difficulty of raising kids; confessing to other women; trying to keep relationships interesting after marriage; etc.
But the best thing is I realised my wife’s whole evening was more Sex and the City than the actual movie – that these mums were more interesting, glamorous, sexy and fun than Miranda, Charlotte, Samantha and Carrie ever could be. And they weren’t acting!
I also realised it was the event, not the movie, that mattered.
Ben Power is a freelance writer.
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