There’s something I need to share…a toy, of the adult variety. Are you following me? Great.
Years ago, when my partner and I were still young, wild, and without children, I decided to host a party. You know, the kind where you sell fun products like those from LuLaRoe or Mary Kay—except this one featured plastic phalluses, bizarre-flavored gels, and edible underwear. (And seriously, those edible undies? They resemble fruit roll-ups, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to munch on a fruit roll-up covered in hair. But I digress.)
As luck would have it, I caught a nasty stomach bug just before the party was set to start—too late to cancel. So, I was stuck in our bedroom, clutching a trash can, while my partner took over hosting duties. To my surprise, he turned out to be quite the salesman (who knew?!). In fact, he sold so many items that I got to pick one for free. Naturally, I chose a gigantic, blue, sparkly, motorized, rotating phallus.
Fast forward a few years to when our eldest child was around five. After reorganizing our closet, he began rummaging through some boxes. Suddenly, I heard a frantic buzzing sound followed by a curious “Whoa!” My heart dropped as I turned to see my son holding Big Blue, fully in his hand, eyes wide with excitement. “What’s this?” he exclaimed.
Oh no. Stay calm, I told myself. If he thinks it’s something taboo, he’ll only want to explore it more. “It’s…an antique,” I managed to say, trying to sound cool as I snatched it away. “Let me just put this away.” My face blazed with embarrassment—there’s nothing quite like your child innocently discovering your vibrator. I pushed him toward the closet door, shutting it behind him as I stashed Big Blue on the highest shelf, hidden behind some junk.
“What’s an antique?” he asked from outside the door.
I can’t recall what I replied—trauma has a way of erasing memories. But it evidently made an impact because just the other day, while at my mother’s house, I teased her about a ceramic cat from the ’80s that she still keeps on display. “If that cat sticks around much longer, it’ll be an antique,” I joked.
To my shock, my son piped up, “Hey, just like your antique!”
I was baffled. I don’t have any antiques. “What antique?” I probed.
“You know,” he said, exasperation creeping into his voice, “the big sparkly blue thing in your closet that buzzes and spins. What happened to it? Is it an old toy? Can we get it out and play?”
Oh. My. Goodness.
My son was inadvertently asking about my vibrator—in front of my mother, no less! “Oh that?” I said, trying to sound casual while dying inside. “I think I threw that away a long time ago.” But in reality? I hadn’t.
Maybe now it’s time to consider it.
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Summary:
This humorous piece recounts a mother’s mortifying experience when her son innocently discovers her adult toy, which she hastily tries to dismiss as an “antique.” The story touches on the challenges of parenting, embarrassment, and the quirky moments that come with having children.