Let me see that belly button.

Last night I had to print some pictures off for last minute Father’s Day gift prepping.  Better translated – the kids painted wooden picture frames for all of the grandpas and I had to fill them with recent snapshots.  So I borrowed my mom’s portable printer and set up shop in my bedroom – a location that would allow me to have all three kids within earshot as they played together.

My youngest made it the easiest on me, deciding to sit on my lap and fingerprint all the pictures as they rolled hot off the press.  (Like their faces weren’t dirty enough in the pictures without the external ketchup smears.)  My older two were playing Care Bears and Rescue Heroes while running back and forth between each other’s bedroom.  I thought they were doing a good job of keeping themselves busy. 

In retrospect, I should have known something wasn’t quite right after a ten minute period without screaming, crying, hair pulling, pouting, shouting, and sprints to my side in order to be the first to tattle on the other.   But silly me, I was trying to actually complete a task.  Happy Father’s Day.  

So after 10-15 minutes of printing pix, my one-year-old and I moved on to her room to play with her baby dolls.  She decided that it was time for every stuffed animal to go to sleep.  It’s right after my daughter shrieked that Elmo couldn’t sleep next to Dora, that my son hollered, “Mom, you gotta come see this”. 

In my house, those words are never a sign of good things to come.  Especially so, when timed with the thought that certain children have been too quiet for too long…………and the voice hollering is filled with squeamish delight.  I did mention that it had been a whopping total of 10-15 minutes since I started printing pictures, right?

So I followed the beckoning call…….and I was blessed with the visual of my five-year-old and three-year-old sitting on the bathroom linoleum floor with what looked like 10lbs of 2″ X 3″ paper and plastic cards laying all around them.  I quickly glanced to their legs.  My son was holding a washcloth to his left shin and shooting a politician’s smile up at me.  My three-year-old then shouted (because I’ve decided she has the inability to talk at a non-deafening volume) “Mom, do you like my tattoos?”

I scanned their playdoh legs. 

Both kids had 10-12 fake tattoos all over their legs.  Washcloths were all over the bathroom.  From my rough estimate, they must have needed a separate one for each tattoo.  Each tattoo must have also required 3 gallons of water, because the bathroom floor was soaking wet.   And apparently the thought of getting rid of the evidence never crossed their mind, because they even asked me to help clean up their mess after a five minute show-&-tell session. 

My son’s tattoos climbed all the way up his back end.  I want to know who he thought was going to be seeing those graffiti’d gems.  My daughter’s tattoos were all facing upside down.  And apparently she decided that a tattoo that read “Girls Rule” with a purse in the background would be best placed on the top of her big toe. 

I’m happy to inform you that bicep and back tattoo placements aren’t cool for the 5 and under crowd.   They were having a hard enough time pointing to the backs of their knees and their rear-ends……I can only imagine the drama if a mirror was needed to admire lower-back artwork.

Needless to say, I have since hid the remaining temporary tattoos in the house and washed a load of towels.  I have also decided that now would be a good time to start inspecting earlobes and belly buttons for any holes/piercings.   You never know what may happen on one of my quick runs to the basement to change a load of laundry?!?!?   Then again…..that scene probably wouldn’t play out so quietly.

My son drew a picture of me.

And no, it’s not a perm.  I have naturally curly hair.