I’ve just died and gone to mummy heaven

Dan: “Mummy, you know real tattoos?”

(*groan*, he’s thinking about tattoos? Really? He covers his body in fake Pirates of the Caribbean tattoos most weekends and demands that I let him wear tops with no sleeves for maximum exposure. He even asked if he could have a dagger one on his neck once – he’d clearly run out of visible body parts – but I draw the line there. And now he’s talking about real tattoos? This cannot be good.)

Me, all nervously: “Yes?”
“I am never ever going to have one.”

This is me dancing around the kitchen. Fist pump, fist pump.

“Because they really really hurt and when you want to get it taken off they have to use a laser and that hurts even more. So what’s the point?”

I have no idea where this has come from. Neither hubby or I have a tattoo, we never talk about them and we have certainly never told him how they are applied or removed. But I want to kiss him.

“Like those people who smoke. What’s the point of that? Why don’t they just spend their money on a comic if they want something to do?”

That’s my boy!

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