I spoke with my son this morning. He had news. Last night he got a golf ball sized tattoo on his upper left ribcage. I said, "You did? Wow, you know I created that canvas. So I feel weird that it has been altered. Haha. Not that it is mine. But you know what I mean." "I know," he said. "I completely understand. That is why I wanted to tell you about it beforehand. But... ." I replied, "Does it look good?" "It looks great," he said. "I got it professionally done. It hurt really bad though. The guy said that was the worst place to get one, pain-wise." I said, "Sounds like it." "I'll send a pic when we get off the phone," he said. "OK, sounds good," I replied.
He sent the pic. It is an outline of a bird... the logo of his skate team. He is going to have it colored in soon.
My baby, now a man, has a bird on his torso. He was not born with a bird on his torso.
But he is not mine. Never really was, was he? I was just the vehicle that brought him into this world and sheltered and fed him for a while. And hopefully passed on my knowledge and helped guide him and teach him critical thinking skills and how to make sound decisions.
At least he got the tattoo where it can be easily covered if necessary. He knows that tattoos on the hands are a no, no.
He's left the nest. He's a free bird. With a bird tattoo.
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