Lucy, 4, and Audrey, 2, are splashing wildly in their parents' tub. Lucky for me it is an enclosed shower so I make silly faces through the glass, let them shoot water at me, and enjoy the dryness of my side. The girls are off on a pirate adventure but I interrupt to ask if they want to paint nails when they get out. Of course they do; it's a special activity mom never has time for. I take the time to sit with them, let them choose a color, paint whatever bizarre requests, and giggle and laugh, and spend time just me and the girls.
I looked for mom's nail kit in the bathroom closet. Digging around, on shelves too high, items begin to topple down but are replaced easily. The girls laugh at my fumbling and inability to keep the avalanche at bay, or find the nail kit for that matter. And then, the motherload. Down it comes. Pearly and black, the rubber hit my hip and crashed, convulsing, on the floor. Mom's vibrating dildo writhed around, quieting the girls, and widening their eyes. I didn't know where to begin. I picked it up carefully. Took my time shutting it off and placing it deeper in the closet, aborting my nail kit mission. Then I turned to face the girls.
What do you say about that? They stared at me, none of us speaking. Lucy finally blurts in her 4-year-old incessantly and uncessarily loud voice, "WHAT'S THAT?!" I panicked. And froze. And stood realtively grossed out as I had manhandled this woman's device. I asked Lucy a diverting question about the pirates attacking and the event was glossed over. I never went back for the nail kit again.
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