A Temporary Moment of Panic

My Mum didn't have too many hard and fast rules while we were growing up.  But she had one that I knew she was very serious about.

``As long as you are living under my roof no one will be getting tattoos.``

And we didn`t.  I never had the desire anyway.  Ear piercing was a far as I would go.

Rebel.

Right here.

Then I turned 30, had a baby and went to visit my best friend in Vancouver for 4 days.  Okay so there was much more that went on in that 31st year but nothing else that has to do with this particular story.

While visiting my best friend, we impulsively decided to get tattoos.  My first, her third (I think).

And no...we were not inebriated.

My first son`s initials, his birthdate and a heart (obviously)

Just to put it out there - this was way before the celebrity trend of getting their child`s name tattooed on them became all the rage.  Clearly I`m the trendsetter here.

And now that we have that background story established....

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The other day as I was emptying the garbage from under the kitchen sink I noticed a spill of goodness-knows-yuck spreading it`s brown ugliness on the white surface.  As I`m so glamourosly scrubbing away, my littlest came over and started prodding me with his pudgy two year old little finger on the lower right side of my back - where my tattoo is. My tattoo became visible as my shirt came up a bit from all my vigorous cleaning.

Scritch scratch...poke, poke.

"What`sat?"

"That`s a tattoo."  I suddenly became anxiously aware that I must get one for him before he becomes of an age to assume that Adrian is my favourite son. (Obviously this is untrue.  I have no such thing as a consistent favourite.  Quite honestly it changes from minute to minute depending on who's plotting the demise of my sanity via ongoing demands and tantrums, making wild amounts of mess and noise and refusing to eat anything remotely healthy - sometimes I choose my dog).

Someone thoughtfully pointed out a while ago, as I was discussing my next tattoo, that my youngest son's initials happen to be F.A.S. which also stands for Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. I'd rather not have a permanently inked part on my body that stands for horribly sad and awful child birth defects.

So now I'm back to the drawing board.  Because now, if I get his first name written in full - will Adrian then think that Finley is the favourite since his are merely initials - and what about the symbol - I can't get another heart...there's no originality in that!  And then there's the whole location of where to put it.  Ack.  It's simply all too stressful to think about.  Maybe you can put your minds together and help a Mother out.

"Ouch." he says, still prodding away at my lower back;.

"Yes, it did hurt."  I remember worrying about the needle part of the tattoo getting. (kind of how the tattoo gets there - I know - I can't always be logical).  I have a serious fear of fast stabby needles which is primarily the reason why I don't sew.  But I figured if I could give birth to a 9.6 lb baby and feel every bit of it, what's a few minutes of fast stabby needles on my backside??  Bah - no biggie.

And while a tattoo is nothing comparable to giving birth to giant babies, I have to admit that the first seconds of that fast stabby needle stung like a mutha.

Adrian came into the kitchen just then and having seen my tattoo and commenting on it many times before he didn't have much to add.

Except this...

"Mumma, can I have a tattoo?"

All of a sudden he's 16 years old, standing in front of me all handsome and 6 feet plus deepened voice and whiskery faced.

My heart stopped.  I fumbled for words.  "Uh well...when you get to be 30. 35 years old.  Then. Um. I suppose. You can make. That decision...on your own." Clearing of the throat. Sweat on my brow.  Praying, "Please dear God, NO!  Why is he asking me such questions!?  Nooo!  Not yet!  My baby!"

I blinked my eyes and he was four again.  I stared up at him from down on the floor where I had sat scrubbing away seconds ago.

 My beautiful boy.  So big eyed, sweet and innocent.  Unmarred Perfection.

"No Mumma!  The Toy Story tattoos!"  He practically rolled his eyes at me.

"Oh!  Oh yes!  Of-course you can have your Toy Story tattoos!"

Then I pretty much galloped in gleeful relief to the drawer where his temporary tattoos resided.