Where I come from, Easter marks the day before barefoot season. I should probably change the rule this year what with the arctic timing of the holiday, but my boys have never heard of the rule at all – so I guess we’ll just take it a day at a time.
Drew started a new hobby. Tattooing. I think Michael actually started the game. And you know why? Because when you’re relaxing after a long day of real world stressors, nothing feels better than your small child’s hands running matchbox cars up and down your blue jeans and your back or letting them spritz your hair with the water bottle and brush it into place just as you do for them in the mornings, or feeling their small fingers tracing flowers and dragons and You Rock’s with washable markers up and down your arms. It’s almost as good as a massage – if only they wouldn’t ever tire of it. This picture is only the beginning of my session the other night because no matter what he wanted to draw, I let him. As long as he could find another space of skin. I had all of my children’s names on this arm by the end. I was like Angelina Jolie. Only without the geography lesson. Or the class. That’s right, I called her tattoos classy. They are the longitude and latitude of the countries of her children’s births, and I think it’s beautiful. I’d copy the idea if I didn’t hate the thought of the pain and if they weren’t all born on the exact same floor of the exact same hospital in the exact same city on the planet. It would just look like the tattoo artist couldn’t get it quite right and kept trying. So uncool.
I think I’ll stick with our way. It doesn’t hurt. It comes off with just a little water. And it won’t take away from my evening-wear.