Tattoos.

The younger five kids came with me to the grocery store. The cashier offered them each a patriotic temporary tattoo. Why not? Then she told them to each take a handful.

Side note: five very full handfuls of temporary tattoos is a LOT of tattoos.

Elliot thought handful meant two hands full with more spilling onto the floor. I told her to put some back and the lady just said she’d get her a bag. She was desperate to be rid of them. In hindsight, I should have hunted down her grandkids and given them a couple hundred. Spread the love.

More experienced moms would have been all over this excess and pending doom. But I had a moment of amateur apparently because I allowed all of it. And when the lady apologized I said it was fine.

Two hundred tiny plastic papers. Probably not an exaggeration. Everywhere. Faces, tattooed. Arms. Legs. Unrecognizable for all the fake ink. Wet rags left on hardwood floors from application of said tattoos.

I can’t kiss Stellan’s pudgy cheeks. They’re tattooed. Sticky. Elliot’s legs look like a fireworks display. Two kids got themselves banned from more tattoos for the moment. There were tears.

And then there’s Ruby. Pretty sure she has not a single one on. And suddenly, that’s sad too. She’s so big.

At least I can kiss her cheeks!