There we were, standing in the kitchen, ready to get some rockin' new ink.
No,
it wasn't a tattoo party. (Side note: Seriously, don't get tattoos at
tattoo parties, unless the goal is to leave with a permanent doodle
marring your flesh, some psuedo-kanji proclaiming you a prostitute, or
hepatitis. Good ol' hepatitis.) We'd just returned home from a friend's
daughter's birthday party with goodie bags that included matching lady
bug temporary tattoos. Momentous. Occasion.
So, I helped her hop up to sit on the kitchen counter top. I
prepped the necessary tattooing supplies (wet rag? check!) and we
planned where to put them. Phoenix chose her right forearm. I did the
same. Twinsies. Word.
"Alright, Phoenix Greenbeanix", I said to her. "Are you prepared to get your super awesome ladybug tattoo?!"
She looked me square in the eyes.
"Mama", she said. "It's not a real tattoo. I'm not old enough to make that decision."
Fair enough, you tiny little rules-lawyer. Fair enough.
