Sometimes I simply don't understand my child. Once in a while I allow myself to smugly think I have her all figured out, and then she does something so unexpected that for a brief second I have absolutely no clue who she even is.
On the heels of her big Valentine's party at school, I could tell she was on a bit of a sugar high when I finally picked her up after work. As we sat and ate dinner together, we read all the Valentines she got and separated the candy and trinkets into containers. Mixed in with the pile of cards, lollipops, tootsie rolls, pencils, candy hearts, and rubber bracelets, we found several temporary tattoos. She thought they were stickers at first and I tried to explain the difference.
After dinner I innocently asked if she'd like me to put one of the tattoos on her leg. From her reaction, you'd think I asked if I could chop her leg off with a butter knife.
Anyone reading along knows that 'fearless' is a term I've used often to describe Punky. She is not afraid of, well, anything. As a baby she wasn't too keen on her bare feet touching the grass and that's about the biggest fear I've seen her exhibit in the last four years. She's not intimidated by people, she's never been scared of the doctor, she has no fear of water or jumping into swimming pools ten feet deep, she hugged and kissed the totally scary and disgusting zombie dummy her dad made for a Halloween decoration this year, she happily rode every single amusement park ride she's been tall enough to ride thus far, she has no fear of heights, no fear of speed, no fear of monsters, no fear of the dark, and normally no fear whatsoever to try something new. She's never even had a nightmare that's scared her enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.
Yet, for whatever reason, she carried on like I was trying to kill her when I suggested the tattoo thing, and I spent the next hour trying to calm her down and reason the fear out of her little head. At one point, she actually ran in her room and hid under her covers. She was genuinely terrified, and crying, and begging me not to do it. And I was fairly clueless on how to handle the whole situation. I'd never seen her so scared, and let's be honest, fearing a temporary tattoo is simply absurd.
I finally decided to take the 'lead by example' approach and put one of the tattoos on my right calf. She watched in total horror, like I would drop dead at any second, and ran out of the room the minute I pulled the paper off to reveal the little car on my leg. She refused to look at it, all the blood drained from her face when I had the nerve to suggest she touch it, and she sternly instructed me to keep it away from her.
I had no choice but to accept complete failure on this parenting challenge and admit defeat. All the reasoning in the world wasn't landing in her head and putting one on myself made the situation worse, not better. I even attempted bribery: unlimited candy consumption for the rest of the night. She wouldn't even bite when I offered to fork over the rest of the money to buy the American Girl doll she's been saving for so diligently. I threw in the towel.
I gave her a big hug and solemnly swore I would never bring up the tattoo topic again. I assured her it was her body and she has every right to dictate what others are allowed to do to it (that message can't be reinforced enough in my opinion), and also reminded her that she can trust her mommy wholeheartedly, and that I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt her, and that I would never lie to her. And I couldn't resist telling her that I hope she remembers this tattoo discussion when she's a teenager and decides she wants a real one. Hey, something good has to come from this, right?
She stopped crying and we got on with what was left of our evening. I sat down to pay some bills and she lost herself in the world of Barbie dolls currently taking over our entire living room floor. About twenty minutes later, she was at my side.
"Mommy?" she asked in her sweet 'I want something' tone. "Can you put a tattoo on me now?"
This is one of those moments in parenting where you struggle to resist the urge to stab yourself in the eye with a fork while verbally expressing utter pride and encouragement for your child's sudden burst of bravery.
The tattoo application went off without a hitch. It didn't hurt, sting, burn, or result in the loss of a limb as Punky previously envisioned. In fact, she requested another. And another. I drew the line at three and she happily danced around in the living room, flailing her inked arms this way and that way, and she instructed me to choose a short-sleeve shirt for school tomorrow so she could show off her pretty arms.
I have no clue what caused her abrupt change of mind, but I'm glad she found the courage to face and conquer her fear. It's a valuable lesson that will serve her well in the future, even if it means begging and pleading with her not to get a real tattoo when she's a teenager.
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