A friend of mine recently wrote a post about a wooden spoon. She called it the “ouchie little monster.” It looked – well, you know how this work. It was intriguing. It called to me. And it was scary.

It didn’t take long for my Sir to let me know that I was going to need a wooden spoon of my own. Soon. We had some time coming up when we would both be free and had planned a session of playtime.

I say ‘we planned,’ but really, he planned, and let me know where to show up and what to bring with me.

My belt. And a wooden spoon from the kitchen.

As soon as I had a moment of privacy, I rushed to the kitchen to find the spoon. I looked in drawer. I looked at a container where we keep some utensils. No spoon. Not in the sink, not in the dishwasher. No spoon.

And I couldn’t ask any of the other people who live here. How weird would that be? “Hey, have you seen the wooden spoon? No, I don’t need it right now, I was just…”. Nope.

Fortunately, I had one more day to get a spoon. So early in the morning, I was up and out of the house for a Target run.

Here’s the spoon:

Pretty, aren’t they? Acacia wood. Short handles, thick wood, and a bit rounded so the impact is going to be very focused.

They are cool to touch. And heavy.

The image – the sensations – lingered in my mind for hours before bedtime. The next day that spoon was going to be landing on my very sensitive bottom.

Trepidation, anticipation, excitement, and a touch of fear all bouncing around in my head. I shivered just thinking about it.

It’s a wonder I slept at all.

{To be continued…}