Boys And Their Toys


As a stay at home mom, I am so grateful that my boyfriend works his tight little ass off at work every day to take care of us. And because I’m grateful, I try to be really good about not getting uptight about the money he spends on his (very expensive) hobby.

I’m sure all of you have had this type of deal in your relationship, whether it’s his project car, or motorcycle, or tools, or football, or video games, or whatever else they can think of that gets them away from reality for a while. You kinda let it slide because you know it makes him happy.

He can spend the money, within reason. He can use the spare bedroom for his shrine. He can get excited and act like a little school girl with minimal mocking from my side.

I’m not jealous that he gets so excited about his new toy that he doesn’t notice me naked, nipples covered in whipped cream, nothing on but 4 inch heels in front of him (okay maybe that one hurt the ego a bit.)

I’m not jealous that he names his new toys and strokes them and talks to them like he should be bending them over with a fist full of their hair. (If he was, we would have a helluva lot more problems.)

I’m not jealous that he spends enough on them them to cover 30 mani-pedis and a full cut and color every 6 weeks.

What I am jealous of, is that he gets that escape, big or small. For me, an escape is a grocery store trip alone. For me, an escape is a quiet car, or a loud one where I can sing loud as fuck because there is no kid that fell asleep the second we reach our destination. For me, an escape is being able to shit without a kid in my lap, in the tub, in the laundry, in the who-the-fuck-knows this time. Wait, girls don’t poop. Scratch that last one.

I am happy he has an escape, a way to relax, get away from the mundane realities of the world. But I sure as shit am jealous of him for it.

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