No, I don’t have a tattoo. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever get one; my father always impressed on us that it was one of the worst mistakes he ever made. Admittedly he did it as a last act of rebellion against his mother before medical school. Though I’m not sure it counts as rebellion, since he put it on his thigh where his mother would never look. So at least it wasn’t a dramatic rebellion. In any case, I also doubt I’d be able to come up with something I like enough to want to have permanently.
However, this is not a post about all the reasons I don’t have a tattoo. That *would* be exciting, wouldn’t it? It’s a post about Beauty. Who has branched out into tattoo artistry.
She’s been liking coloring lately, especially if I join in. (She likes it even more if Mommy and Daddy and Beauty all do coloring together!) The house would be flooded in colorings if it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t like starting new ones, preferring to keep adding layers of stamps, stickers, crayon and marker to one paper over several days until I hide it.
Yesterday morning I was chatting with Hero on the computer, and Beauty found a marker and her current coloring on the couch and set to work. After a few minutes she noticed she’d gotten a little bit of ink on her fingers, and I told her I’d wipe it off in a bit and went back to typing.
Apparently she believed me.
I suppose laughing and taking pictures may not have been the correct course of action, but I find it hard to get worked up over something that wipes right off. I buy washable markers for a reason, after all. I suppose I’ll regret this when she tries crayon on the wall, but I doubt there’s any way to entirely avoid that particular adventure.