Last weekend we had a family visit with our grandchildren. Since it was a warm day, we sat outside in the shade. Grandson found a frozen gel icepack in the diaper bag, put there to keep the children's snacks cold. He pranced around with it, pressing it against everyone's bare arms. Ron got hold of it and, when Grandson's back was turned, he pulled back the elastic waistband of the little guy's shorts and tucked the icepack inside. Grandson jumped with surprise when the cold penetrated his underwear to his bottom. He wasn't sure whether he liked the sensation or not, and ran to his mum, begging her to "get it out!"
But he was soon back for more, and it became a game. Ron would put the icepack into the back of the boy's shorts and Grandson would leap and dance about, then Mum would remove it, and the cycle would begin again, much to the boy's delight. He came running to Grandpa saying, "Put ice on my bum!"
"How often would you hear anyone say that?" remarked Son, who was watching with amusement.
More often that you might think, was my silent reply. I didn't dare catch Ron's eye. This was, after all, a vanilla afternoon.
Last weekend we enjoyed a visit from our family - Ron's son, daughter-in-law and their two small children. The baby girl is charming and good-natured, while her older brother is a two-year-old perpetual motion machine (PMM). It's nice to see them because they live a distance away and only visit a couple of times a year, but let's face it: our home is not kid-friendly. We have a lot of breakables and things that we don't want PMM to destroy. Then there are our spanking toys.
The family doesn't stay overnight with us because we don't have enough room, but they stop by for a visit and a meal. On their recent visit, son told us that PMM was tired and would probably need a nap, so could he take him up to our bedroom and let him sleep on our bed?
Ron and I exchanged horrified glances. I immediately interjected, "It's not child-proofed." We had doorknob protectors on all the doors upstairs to prevent unwanted entry, but an adult could easily open then.
"That's okay," son replied. I guess he didn't care if PMM hurt himself on something, or destroyed the telephone in the bedroom, or saw something meant for adult eyes only. But I did.
I slipped upstairs as soon as I could and started hiding the evidence. I hung a calendar over our "House of Spanking" plaque. Then I reached under the bed, pulled out our box of paddles, swiftly carried it into my sewing room and slid it under my desk. While in there I also took down our longer implements from their pegs on the wall and shoved them into a drawer. I made sure that door was firmly closed, then went back to the bedroom and put the phone and other bedside breakables out of sight. I didn't have time to empty the bedside table drawers but figured it would have to do.
Luckily for us, PMM wasn't interested in taking a nap. Each time he was carried upstairs and put onto the bed, he didn't remain in the room for more than 30 seconds after the door was shut. He came back down to be with the adults, no matter how tired he was. So our secret is still safe.
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