A Rolling Stones album . . . and so much more. My house became a tattoo parlor today. It seems that tattoos are all around us, and it seems my very impressionable almost nine year old is, well, impressed. This has been building for awhile. I think it first started when he joined his first basketball team, and then started watching NBA games on television. He was wide-eyed, mezmerized, by the professional players and all of their various special qualities. From the lingo to the blingo, and all of the tattoos in between. Since then, Sam has really noticed tattoos. He's been going up to complete strangers -- tattoo-ed strangers -- and saying, "I like your tattoo!" This has started many an interesting converation for him, and it sure is neat to see your children able to carry on conversations and be all independent and all.
I don't really enjoy the idea of having a tattooed child, but I may have to brace myself for the possibility, or at least for the "No you may not" conversation. There was a time when Samuel aspired to be a professional baseball player. Or a professional soccer player. Or a writer and illustrator (We used to have to find pictures of him to put on the inside cover of his paper books, so he could include an "about the author" section.). He has talked about being a teacher. A police officer. A firefighter. But now, he knows his calling. He has discovered the color of his parachute. He knows what his life's work will be: he wants to be a tattoo artist. He spent a good portion of today putting together his tattoo selection book, so his siblings could choose the design they liked the best. The next chunk of the day was spent tattooing his little sisters. I think his brother shined him on: smart kid. Here is the artist at work:
He is busy tattooing Elizabeth, who is playing along like a great sport, if you ask me.
In other Elizabeth news, she brought a smile to my face yesterday. We were at a family wedding, and I heard from a few people that at one point, when she was looking for me, she was going up to people and saying: "Have you seen my mom? She looks like an angel!" Awwwwwwwwww . . . isn't that the sweetest? Rick and I speculate that in about 10 or 12 years, that last word might change a little bit to something not quite so sweet. Stay tuned for her 12th birthday to find out. (She's about to turn 3.) The photo below is of her at the wedding, a non-flower girl. She was tapped for Flower Girl duties months ago, and has been talking about it for weeks. She would get her flower girl shoes out and talk about wearing them at the wedding. She did her FG duties at the Rehearsal Dinner just fine. And then dug in like a stubborn mule when the big moment came, and we had to bow out of the procession gracefully. Oh well, at least she wore the dress -- which took all of my finessing power to accomplish. Someone should outlaw flower girls if you ask me; it's too hard on the moms of the world.