Tattoo

Immediately after marveling at my copious body hair, people who see me without my shirt always ask about my tattoos.

“What do they mean?” Is always the question.

They mean I was an idiot in the 1990’s.

Yes, I was part of that sad, unfortunate crowd who was convinced burying a needle filled with ink into your skin somehow made you different. I believe the number of us lonely souls is roughly 40 million.

And for you kids out there, getting a tattoo is mighty stupid. They never go away and the chances that you’ll still be interested in an obscure Star Wars symbol 15 years later is mighty slim.

Well gang, I made the mistake again! I got an “e” today. For elephant! Or was it for eggplant? I forgot.

Steve is currently painting a big mural in Elijah’s room. A jungle. We offered to pay him, but he flat out refused. So I suggested we go get tattoos signifying our love of our kids. My treat. And Steve can’t resist self-mutilation.

My “e” was relatively painless. Steve’s “F” (Finn) was tougher because he is running out of arm real estate and had to get his on the tender underside of his arm. We didn’t get a Rory “R.” Because I’m not a tattoo bank.

I’m certain I will regret this immature decision. Around the time Elijah starts stealing space cars and telling me how much he thinks I’m a space dork.

But until then this little “e” will remind me how much I love that little guy.

p.s. I do realize I am tacitly giving him permission to get a tattoo or whatever futuristic thing kids will be into. Like attaching an extra bionic arm of something.

p.s.s. Diana thinks it’s cool.

p.s.s.s. Don’t worry. The photo has it reversed. We won’t have to change his name to “9.”