The Day of the Tattooed Boy

Saturday. It’s my only day to sleep. It is precious time, savored in quiet and dark before having to deal with life. My son doesn’t see it that way; he figures the earlier he can get up, the more cartoon time he’ll get before branching out into running with the posse time and playing Star Wars time. So the boy who I have to practically tickle to death and threaten with dumping cold water on his head on regular school days at seven a.m. is up bright eyed and bushy tailed Saturdays at 6:30 or 7. He’s learned to try and let me sleep after a few scary bleary-eyed lectures delivered between my teeth; however, a TV with volume set mid-blare five feet from my bedroom door is not conducive to continued shuteye, especially tuned to Spongebob. So usually round about eight, I limp forlornly out to greet the weekend.

On this particular Saturday, Max had been up for about twenty minutes before I gave up and put feet to the floor. He’d been such a grown up, he’d fixed himself breakfast, turned the TV on and quietly been amusing himself. As I passed his usual spot on the sofa, I noticed with alarm marks on his extremities that at first sleep-stupored glance seemed to be bruises: big green and black bruises. This sight pretty much got rid of any slow waking I planned on doing; I grabbed his arms and proceeded to do a more thorough inspection, while shrieking, “What is that on your arms??” “Tattoos, Mom. I got ‘em on my legs and my belly, too!! Aren’t they cool?” He went on to explain that while I attempted to sleep, he, fueled with a breakfast of frosted sugar cookies, decided it would be awesome to draw tattoos on most of his body with his blendy pens. He had dragons, green and black shiny scales and scary heads, up and down both legs, snakes on both arms (he apparently is ambidextrous, wouldn’t you know…) delicate hearts on his chest and belly and even some decoration (I did not look too long at it for details) on his privates. Some of these were really quite good, artistically speaking.

I immediately launched into my baddest bad cop and dragged him off to the bathtub, where I attempted to scrub his skin off while ranting about lead poisoning. He pouted, he apologized, he wailed. “I can’t wait until I’m 18 and I can get a REAL tattoo!” he shouted. “Not while you’re in my house on my insurance, bud.” I grounded him, restricted him to long sleeves and long pants until the tattoos were gone (the soap did the trick only to the point that they REALLY looked like ghastly bruises which I’d have to explain to school board and family services…) and tried to burn into his brain the actual tattoo process, involving needles and blood and well, more needles and blood and pain. He seemed properly chastised and slunk towel-wrapped out of the bath.

Now, I’d had enough of the bad cop business. The insides of my mouth were permanently scarred from biting them to hold back gales of laughter. I slowly closed the door behind him and let it out, howling until tears streamed down my face. I composed myself eventually and made my way, bad cop face intact, to the coffee pot and made myself my first cup of the morning. Saturday morning, the day of the tattooed boy.