So, here’s the deal: I have a toy.
You following me?
Great.
Ages ago, before my partner Jake and I became responsible parents, I agreed to host one of those wild parties. You know the type — think plastic phallic symbols, bizarre gel flavors, and edible underwear. (I once examined those edible undies closely, and they’re basically glorified fruit roll-ups. Who’s up for chewing on a fruit roll-up that might have some pubic hair stuck to it? Not sexy, right? Anyway, I digress.)
As luck would have it, I came down with a nasty stomach bug just an hour before the party kicked off — way too late to cancel. So, I quarantined myself in our bedroom, trash can by my side, while Jake heroically took over hosting duties. To my surprise, he was a natural at selling… well, you know. He did such a fantastic job that everything flew off the shelves. As a thank-you for his efforts, I got to pick something free. Naturally, I chose a big, sparkly, blue, motorized, rotating… you guessed it.
Now, fast-forward to a few years later when our eldest, Max, was around 5. We had just reorganized our closet, and as Max rummaged through the boxes, I suddenly heard a frantic buzzing sound followed by an astonished, “Whoa!”
My heart nearly stopped. I spun around to see Big Blue, in all its spinning, vibrating glory, firmly grasped in my son’s tiny hands. “What’s this?” he asked, eyes wide as saucers.
Yikes. Stay calm, I told myself. If he thinks it’s forbidden, he’ll just want it more. “It’s… an antique,” I managed to say, snatching it away from him. “Um, I’ll just put this away.” My face burned with the kind of embarrassment only a parent can know when their child innocently discovers their adult toys. I quickly ushered him out of the closet, shoving Big Blue onto the highest shelf, buried beneath a pile of junk.
“What’s an antique?” came his muffled voice from outside.
I can’t recall exactly what I told him — trauma does that funny thing to memory — but apparently, my words stuck. Fast forward to a recent visit to Grandma’s house, where I joked about a ceramic cat she bought back in the ’80s. “If you keep that cat much longer, it’ll become an antique,” I said.
“Hey, like your antique!” Max chimed in, completely unfazed.
Confused, I replied, “What antique?”
“You know,” he responded with exasperation, as if I should know better. “Your antique in the closet? The big sparkly blue thing that buzzes and spins? Can we get it out and play with it?”
Oh. My. Gosh.
My son was asking about my vibrator — and in front of my mother, no less! “Oh, that?” I said, trying to sound casual, but inside I was cringing. “I think I tossed that years ago.”
Except, friends? I really didn’t.
But I might just have to now.
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Summary:
This humorous piece recounts a mom’s embarrassing encounter when her young son discovers her adult toy, which she tries to pass off as an “antique.” The story explores the challenges of parenting and the unexpected moments that arise when kids innocently stumble upon adult items.