Living with a baby in a tiny Brooklyn apartment is a little like living with a crawling chastity belt.

So when my husband suggested a week in the country with his parents, I jumped at the idea of open space, eager babysitters, and ample opportunities for sex.

We'd cuddle while baby played with grandma and grandpa. With baby in a room all his own, we'd have uninterrupted nights for lovemaking. We could go on a date!

News flash: Sex on vacation with a baby is not much different than sex at home with a baby.

We arrived at our bucolic getaway to discover that our bed screeched when you leaned against it, let alone tumbled on it. Our agoraphobic baby was not keen on his lofty room and slept with us. My in-laws had no interest in 6 a.m. wake-ups to play peek-a-boo so we could screw. And the dates? I would have done the deed in the back of the Camry if it hadn't been for the infant car seat. By day four, I was desperate.

And then it happened. One glorious morning, grandparents and baby were frolicking in the garden, my husband was baking bread in the kitchen. The house was silent. I called to him from our bedroom. Before he could wipe the flour off his hands, I ripped off my clothes and his.

We were rolling around on the floor for five minutes when the happy lot trotted back inside. "Do I stop?" my husband asked. "No!" I shrieked. We finished fast and desperate and collapsed on the carpet. We were sweaty and giddy. It was just like being at home.