Circles In A Pond

The children are writing on themselves.

I am tattooed, its true. Recently I got something new. This is the fourth tattoo since my oldest was born. She gets very excited, she loves me, she thinks its neat. She loves the fakes ones. But she hadn’t written on herself before.

The youngest is a hellion. She writes on everything and herself. The freedom and disregard for authority of the youngest has busted a dam in the oldest. The oldest is now lying, acting sneaky. Then…

I am doing dishes and I can hear the girls chattering away, playing and being silly in the “playroom”, a.k.a. a really small cozy nook behind the This-End-Up Couch. I wander into the livingroom just to check on them and notice my oldest decorating the youngest’s feet with blue triangles. Right below where she has written her own name.

“What are you doing?” She executes the “I’m Caught!” jump and I get no response.

Closer inspection reveals much decorating of skin has occured. And this is the second such incident since the newest tattoo. Sigh.

I get them both in the bathroom. I will have to scrub them since she wasn’t using crayola or anything, but some random no-name that came from a kit. I sit down on the milk crate and start pulling off clothes.

“Why did you do it?” I ask her casually. She is trying to get undressed without unbuttoning but stops at my question.

“I don’t know.” She responds, getting serious.

“Come on, I know you aren’t stupid, so knock it off. Tell me why.”

“I wanted a tattoo, like you.”

And there it is folks.
Thats how fast actions meet their consequences.

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