I was proud of myself, even though the question caught me off-guard.
“Mom, when can I have a tattoo?”
My six year-old posed the request and, even though I didn’t really feel like outlining my hopes and dreams and fears for her in the middle of dinner prep, I knew I really didn’t have a choice.
The hard parts of motherhood wait for no man’s spinach enchiladas.
Harmless sidewalk chalk or gateway to ink?
So. I stepped up and mothered, dammit. I explained the concept of permanence, of the importance of symbols and, yes, being of an age where you fully grasp what “permanence” means. I gave her an earful about self-image, about the image we put forth into society, and how’re we’re judged unfairly- unfairly– on the latter, regardless of the former. I explained how I had gotten my wrist tattoo after the death of my Dad, so that I could always have his initials at hand. I laughed about how I had waited until the age of 34 to find something worth tattooing! And, wanting to end with a bang, I revealed that tattoos kinda hurt. A lot. It’s a needle, digging into your skin, leaving permanent- did I mention permanent?- ink for the world to see.
She was quiet.
I was confident that I had just parented the hell out of that milestone question.
“Mom?”
“Yes, baby.” (Good Lord, they should give me a medal or something.)
Slowly she pointed to a spot behind me on the kitchen counter where a stack of glitter tattoos rested.
“Should I wait until after my bath so it doesn’t scratch off?”
“…Sure. That sounds smart.”
I let her have three.
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