Daughter Dildo

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My twelve-year-old daughter is wonderful at entertaining her six-year-old sister. If I am showering, or trying to meet a deadline, or on the phone, I can ask her to take her into the other room and she can keep her busy for an hour.
The other morning, I did just that. I was upstairs on an important call and I asked my big girl to take her sister downstairs so I could concentrate. The call finished and I began tidying up the kitchen, then made another call, then wandered back downstairs to get dressed.
I noticed the girls weren’t in either of their rooms, so quickly realised they were in my bedroom.
As I approached the room I could hear them chattering away.
“Now, I’m just going to add some vegetables,” my big girl was saying, “and stir, and now we’ll season with some salt and pepper, and put a shake of this …” (I could hear something clanking in a bowl) “and add some of this meat here ... and stir again …”
I smiled. This was my daughters’ latest game. The big girl would put on a ‘cooking demonstration’ for the six year old, who would be her appreciative audience. She would take bits and pieces of ‘food’ she found from around the room – scrunched up pieces of paper, pens, hair bands, small toys and the like – and stir them around in a bowl, giving a running commentary as she went. So sweet.
I poked my head around the door. Yes, there was my little one sitting on the bed, clapping with delight as her sister performed the ‘show’.
And there was the twelve-year-old, with her bowl full of objects, stirring them around with …
She was happily and obliviously using my vibrator – which admittedly (and thank heavens) doesn’t actually look like a phallus, but rather a vibrating latex rod, but still – as a spoon.
After gripping the doorway and managing to stay conscious, I had to make a decision: Did I rush in and grab the vibrator, or just back away and leave them to it. Rushing in would cause a scene, and no doubt imprint the incident on their minds... and they’d no doubt ask questions … and then I’d have to answer. If I just left them to it, hopefully they’d think no more about it, and I’d just make sure I hid the bloody thing a bit more carefully next time.
I backed away and retreated shakily to the kitchen, where I got out my mobile phone and began texting my bestie.
Oh my GOD, I wrote to S. You would not believe what just happened. I walked into my room and the girls were doing a cooking demonstration WITH MY VIBRATOR! I am going to die. Could it possibly get any worse???
I didn’t hear back for at least half an hour. And then my phone pinged, and it was S, responding to my text.
Er… yes, she had written. It could get worse. I was driving when you sent me that text and so I got R to read the message out to me.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh NO. R is her twelve year old son. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he goes to school with my twelve year old daughter. Yes, the one wielding the vibrating, er, spoon.
Please tell me you’re joking, I typed back.
No. Sorry. But in interesting news, R said he didn’t think vibrators looked like spoons. I didn't know he even knew what they looked like!
The vibrator has since been locked in a cupboard. My twelve-year-old is not allowed to talk to R. And there are wooden spoons handy in every room of our house.
My daughters both seem to be unscathed, but I couldn’t possibly go through that kind of trauma again.
The perfect family road trip soundtrack
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This article contains a video
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My twelve-year-old daughter is wonderful at entertaining her six-year-old sister. If I am showering, or trying to meet a deadline, or on the phone, I can ask her to take her into the other room and she can keep her busy for an hour.
The other morning, I did just that. I was upstairs on an important call and I asked my big girl to take her sister downstairs so I could concentrate. The call finished and I began tidying up the kitchen, then made another call, then wandered back downstairs to get dressed.
I noticed the girls weren’t in either of their rooms, so quickly realised they were in my bedroom.
As I approached the room I could hear them chattering away.
“Now, I’m just going to add some vegetables,” my big girl was saying, “and stir, and now we’ll season with some salt and pepper, and put a shake of this …” (I could hear something clanking in a bowl) “and add some of this meat here ... and stir again …”
I smiled. This was my daughters’ latest game. The big girl would put on a ‘cooking demonstration’ for the six year old, who would be her appreciative audience. She would take bits and pieces of ‘food’ she found from around the room – scrunched up pieces of paper, pens, hair bands, small toys and the like – and stir them around in a bowl, giving a running commentary as she went. So sweet.
I poked my head around the door. Yes, there was my little one sitting on the bed, clapping with delight as her sister performed the ‘show’.
And there was the twelve-year-old, with her bowl full of objects, stirring them around with …
She was happily and obliviously using my vibrator – which admittedly (and thank heavens) doesn’t actually look like a phallus, but rather a vibrating latex rod, but still – as a spoon.
After gripping the doorway and managing to stay conscious, I had to make a decision: Did I rush in and grab the vibrator, or just back away and leave them to it. Rushing in would cause a scene, and no doubt imprint the incident on their minds... and they’d no doubt ask questions … and then I’d have to answer. If I just left them to it, hopefully they’d think no more about it, and I’d just make sure I hid the bloody thing a bit more carefully next time.
I backed away and retreated shakily to the kitchen, where I got out my mobile phone and began texting my bestie.
Oh my GOD, I wrote to S. You would not believe what just happened. I walked into my room and the girls were doing a cooking demonstration WITH MY VIBRATOR! I am going to die. Could it possibly get any worse???
I didn’t hear back for at least half an hour. And then my phone pinged, and it was S, responding to my text.
Er… yes, she had written. It could get worse. I was driving when you sent me that text and so I got R to read the message out to me.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh NO. R is her twelve year old son. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he goes to school with my twelve year old daughter. Yes, the one wielding the vibrating, er, spoon.
Please tell me you’re joking, I typed back.
No. Sorry. But in interesting news, R said he didn’t think vibrators looked like spoons. I didn't know he even knew what they looked like!
The vibrator has since been locked in a cupboard. My twelve-year-old is not allowed to talk to R. And there are wooden spoons handy in every room of our house.
My daughters both seem to be unscathed, but I couldn’t possibly go through that kind of trauma again.
The perfect family road trip soundtrack
Contains:
This article contains a video
Sponsored
Last minute Christmas gift ideas for kids
Contains:
This article contains a photo gallery
10 chocolate-free advent calendars for kids
Contains:
This article contains a photo gallery
10 best advent calendars for adults
Contains:
This article contains a photo gallery

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