This pains me to admit here, because my mother reads my blog.
But.. well… it has to be said.
I have A Drawer.
You know what I mean. The Drawer (or possibly The Box) that is somewhere in your bedroom where you have safely tucked away The Stuff. You know, The Stuff. The Stuff that arrives at your house in nondescript brown packages, or in a black plastic bag shoved into the bottom of your purse after a drunken drop in at The Store. The Drawer contains The Stuff that you don’t want anyone else to see. Or touch. Or discuss. Or really even know about, thank you very much.
Anyway. So. Yeah. I have A Drawer.
(Sorry, Mom! Love you. Oh, and Mom? It’s only going to get worse from here…)
Since you now know about The Drawer and we are obviously very close and personal friends at this point, I feel comfortable in telling you that on Saturday night after a ridiculous amount of drinking and dancing and loud in public singing – The Drawer was opened. And apparently ransacked. In fact future evidence would suggest that although I do not remember this specifically, The Drawer was opened and all of its contents haphazardly thrown about the room with neither a thought nor care to where any of The Stuff landed.
And then, it would seem, there was much passing out and heavy sleeping.
Until about… oh… 7:30 the next morning. Ish.
It was roughly that time that my heavy slumber was roused by the delicate sound of my daughter’s giggles. Without opening my eyes, I groped amidst the sheets for the source of the sound and mumbled something about “breakfast” and “ask Daddy”.
The giggling was then supplemented with the tiniest whisper. “Mom? Mommm? Mommy?”
“Mmm… cartoons baby? Hmmm…”
“Mom! Hey Mom!” long gone was the whisper. “Mommy, look! What’s this?”
I rolled over towards the sound of her voice and pried open an eyelid. Standing at the side of the bed, nose to nose with me in that creepy way that kids do when you’re sleeping and trying not to wake you up but totally trying to wake you up, was my three year old. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and positively glowing from the ear-to-ear grin on her face.
And she was holding a small glass replica of a penis.
Her eyes lit up when she realized I was awake. She thrust the pseudo-penis in my face and asked again, “what is it Mom? What’s this?”
Hand to Heaven, you have never seen a human being on Earth move as fast as I did when I leaped out of that bed, ripped the (unused, thank you very much) dildo from her hand, slammed The Drawer shut and swept her out of the room with the flurry of a flock of pigeons and the promise of ice cream for breakfast.
If there is a Gold Medal for Pain and Humiliation and Least Likely To Ever Have Sex Again – I win.