The Island of Accidentally-Given Sex Toys

I accidentally gave my sex toys to my daughter’s daycare provider.

Well, to be technical, I didn’t give them to her. I mean, yes, I am the person who physically handed them to her in a bag, but I didn’t actually know. It was an accident, really.

This whole mortifying tale actually goes back to last August, when I was subject to a separate (but in time, related) mortifying incident. I was crashing on my parents’ couch for about two weeks while I was between living situations, and my mother, on a day when her meds were apparently functioning properly, decided to wash all of my clothing. (Admittedly, in hindsight, maybe the meds were off and her OCD was rampant.) She encountered my sex toys in a box of clothes, and confiscated them. Because despite the fact I am 25, I am eternally 11 in my mother’s crazed, lithium-addled mind. Also, Jesus hates dildos.

I feel like I should defend myself in stating that I am not a whore. Sure, I got knocked up at 21 after a night of copious imbibing and snorting of various substances, but I’m just your friendly heathen next door most days. Fortunately, though, I’ve had a couple orgasms in my past, enough to know that I enjoy them. So I had acquired what some might consider a rather impressive collection of sex toys.

I was pretty pissed, but time passed and I moved back out of the nest and forgot about it. Now, in the meantime, my daycare provider, “Carol,” who runs the home daycare in which my daughter is happily enrolled, let us parents know if we were cleaning out toyboxes, especially at Christmas time, she would gladly take any toys we were tossing if they were clean and in good condition.

So when my mom when on an anti-hoarding spree, she announced she had a garbage-bag full of toys that my daughter had outgrown, and asked if I could drop it off at the Goodwill, because the closest thing to “Goodwill” in my tiny little hometown is “trash day” when the Mexicans come and pick through your trash before the truck comes. The Goodwill drop-off box is near my office and so I agreed, against my better judgment of ever doing anything that helps my mother.

I remember her exact words, as if in a slow motion defining moment of my life – “It’s just some toys you girls don’t need anymore.”

Assuming it was just a collection of barely-touched “Grandma’s house” toys, I took the bag and, believing I was doing a favor to my sitter, dropped it off later that week. I am doing good! Here, Carol! Have my bounty of toys!

I'm sure you can guess where this all came full circle.

Things were well and good til I had this little ditty of texting with Carol a couple days later.

Carol: “I have some things that were in the bag that you may want back.”
Me: “They’re from my mom’s house, I don’t even know what all’s in there. If there’s anything you can’t use, you won’t hurt my feelings by trashing it.”
Carol: “Well some things are of the ‘adult’ variety.”

That’s when my heart dropped and I called my mother to simply ask: “What did you DO?"

Apparently my mother, thinking I might actually go through the bag before I disposed of its contents, had stuck my sex toy collection – in all its phallic, vibrating, jelly-textured glory – in the bag as well.

So let me repeat. I gave my sex toys to my very conservative, Christian babysitter.

We’re not just talking a little vibrator. Oh no. We’re talking anal beads. Clit stimulator. Double ended dildo. If it looks like a shiny blue plastic penis and took double A’s, I probably owned it and it was in the bag as my wonderful Methodist babysitter - the woman who I entrust my child's well-being with for 40 hours a week - opened it and picked it up in horror, watching it wobble back and forth enticingly.

So now, while mortified, my real conflict comes from whether or not I ask for them back. Because while it’s pretty embarrassing and weird, the truth is, that Rabbit wasn’t cheap. And I'm really lonely. And drunk.