So the kids and I got tatted up on Saturday.
Elizabeth's forearm boasted a witch stirring a cauldron and Joseph's boasted a skull. I went more traditional with a pink and black bat on my upper arm. With glitter.
Because I'm hard core like that.
Elizabeth badly wanted the witch. So badly, she was squirming with anticipation while waiting for the tattoo to set.
She was also upset that it would wash off. She wanted tattoos like Aunt Melissa and Mommy.
What? You didn't know I had tattoos? I thought I'd mentioned it before. I went through my 20s in the 90's. Of course I have a tramp stamp.
Not that I was a tramp.
But I'm getting off topic.
An hour later, after spending it admiring our newly illustrated arms, Elizabeth informed me that she didn't like her tattoo any longer and wanted it off.
I decided to use this as a life lesson.
"See, baby? That's why Mommy's not thrilled with the idea of you getting a real tattoo unless it has deep meaning for you rather than a drunken bachelorette party dare. And it's something you need to wait until you're a very big girl to decide upon because what looks good on the hip of a 26-year-old looks entirely different after two children." Words of wisdom here, kids.
But, because we're out of rubbing alcohol, the witch stayed.
By the next day, both hers and Joseph's had taken on the texture of flesh. I knew it would only be a short time before it was gone.
Mine on the other hand still looks brand new..
What. The. Hell.
Which wouldn't normally be an issue except when I want to wear a short sleeved sweater to work but can't without displaying a bright pink and black glitter bat.
I may have to get the rubbing alcohol after all.
Either that or just pretend I'm that hard core.
1 hour ago