While I was out garage saling (yes, it IS a verb) last Saturday, the first for this season, Greg took the kids to get donuts and to get himself a much needed Saturday morning cuppa joe. As is the case on many a weekend morn, getting the kids into their clothes and out of their pajamas and into the car and out of the house is A. MAJOR. FEAT.
To relish in the achievement of getting two dressed children strapped in their car seats, Greg did what every father wanting to enjoy the peace would do and drove to the furthest Starbucks possible, which required him to drive through some older parts of our downtown. The destination is a Starbucks that is in a building that used to be a fire station, and the architecture is really cool. However many of the businesses leading up to it, well, let’s just say they are a tad eyebrow raising, especially to inquisitive young minds. For example, the building directly across from the furthest possible Starbucks from us is a strip club. A few doors down from that is the hottest piercing place in town. And yet even a few more doors down there are several, at least three, tattoo parlors.
Braedyn has a mind like a steel trap; he forgets NOTHING; and he will often relentlessly question something you’ve said until you are making up a story in an attempt to make the answer one you think he’ll find acceptable. Kind of like the time he kept asking me how Hot Wheels were made. He really didn’t like the boring but truthful answers I gave him like: machines make them, they are made in factories, the cars are designed on a computer, machines put all the pieces together. Yeah, none of this worked for him, so I finally told him that little tiny people made them and that’s how they got all those tiny pieces together so perfectly. That answer appeased his unrelenting inquiry, and he stopped the firing of questions my way. Phew. It wasn’t until months later when we were all in the car and Braedyn started talking about the little people that were building the Hot Wheels that Greg gave me the stink eye, and I had to confess that there were no little people that made Hot Wheels. This seemed to be a tad disappointing to Braedyn, but he quickly moved on to something else TO. OBSESS. ABOUT.
So on this fine day as they travelled to the furthest possible Starbucks, Greg made the observation that there were quite a few more tattoo parlors downtown than he remembered there being. His mistake was making this observation OUT LOUD. With all of the kids “tattoos” that are available these days, everywhere from the place they get their haircuts to birthday party gift bags to their stockings at Christmas, Braedyn, in true unrelenting form, started in on how he wanted to get a tattoo. Greg did said no, in case there were any question, but Braedyn wouldn’t let up. Over and over again he declared he wanted a tattoo! Um, no. No. And no. He didn’t like the answer he was getting over and over again AT ALL but the arrival at Starbucks finally distracted him. For now.
That night over dinner, Greg was telling the story of their morning adventure and I proudly boasted about my kick-ass garage sale finds. Once Braedyn heard the word tattoo during Greg’s recounting of the morning, he once again declared that he wanted one! He even mustered up a big lower lip and down turned mouth to help plead his case.
Greg looked at me like, “Agh. Make it stop.” And I was all, duh, “Did you tell him they use NEEDLES when getting a real tattoo?” Greg, light bulb ablaze over his head, “No! No, I didn’t.” And then to Braedyn he said, “Buddy, they use NEEDLES when putting on real tattoos. Did you still want to get one?” If you listen hard enough, you might still hear the reverb of the sound of his head shaking so feverishly that very moment.
So, for the time being, my kids are rebels in their own right, just without the needles, thank you very much.