The Tattoo

I spent the first two years of his life making sure that every crease and crevice was washed and properly dried. I slathered baby oil and baby lotion over every inch of his baby-soft skin. No blemishes, no marks, no cuts or bruises. I had to look the other way when he became older and all the cuts, scrapes and scabs of adolescence appeared. Oh, well, he was all boy. He only cried when I had to take him to the doctor for his inoculations. He hated the needles. He cried if he even thought there was the slightest chance of a shot.

When he had a sledding accident and had to have stitches in his forehead, you could hear him screaming all the way down the hall in the ER. When the dog bit him in the back of the head, he screamed so loudly getting those stitches, that he single-handedly emptied the entire ER waiting room! I was sick to my stomach and feeling like I might pass out, just listening to him. It was the stuff of nightmares. When he was getting ready to go to middle school, he needed to get caught up on some shots. They set up stations in the gym and the children went to the various areas to get certain shots. When it was his turn, he screamed so long and loud that he actually turned yellow! Not red in the face, not pink in the cheeks, but yellow all over his body. The doctor didn't know what to make of it. We won't even discuss the broken arm and all that entailed.

So what did my boy do? He deliberately chose to subject himself to a lot of needles. He actually got a tattoo. Pierced his skin with needles, not with life saving serum to protect him against disease, but with colored ink! Magic markers would have produced the same thing and been less painful. I almost wish it really hurt. When he was younger and still lived at home, I told him that if he ever got a tattoo, I would take it off with my razor scraper. Obviously, I can't do that now. He's grown and married and off on his own. He's not my little boy anymore.