tattoos and regrets

My middle kids are in Vacation Bible School this week, learning from Lutherans, which should be good. Last year they learned from the Church of Christ and last month they were at some kinda Fellowship which I figure used to be Assembly of God. Takes all kinds, y'all, and we all love Jesus, so I figure some cross-pollination is healthy. (see what I did there, with cross?)

Anyway, every day they send them home with a paper bag full of religious propaganda, which is great because they learn Bible stories and so on. Today, though, Toby lost his bag and then he found it, sans most of its items. Did some miniature Lutheran steal his VBS swag? I'm not asking these questions. Brynn was loftily superior with her bag of pamphlets and a fake tattoo.

All the way home, she demanded that I put the tattoo on her. Now, Brynn is bright. She's very smart. But sometimes, on the practicals of motor vehicle safety, she's a little slow. Honey, if you're reading this as a moody teenager, you're not slow now. You weren't even slow when I wrote this. Just because you routinely request in a panicked and shrill voice that I fix your nail polish whilst rocketing down the freeway at 75 miles an hour, or wail about how thirsty you are and you.need.water.now while I am changing lanes in a thunderstorm and Tristan is crying, that does not make you slow. I apologize.

Once we got home, I pointed Tristan in the direction of the house and then unbuckled people and carried bags and sippy cups and unlocked the door and kind of kicked at small people until they went in the door and then came inside and dropped all the bags and answered a few questions about the universe. After a moment, I noticed Brynn was still in the car and discovered that a) she lost the tattoo and b) she was no less emotional than at any other point in her small female life. They found it eventually and she demanded that I put it on her, right away, so I did.

Once it was wet and we counted down the 30 seconds, I removed the paper backing and she stared down at her new ink. It took about another 30 seconds before she flipped out and started screaming. "It HURTS!" she wailed. "It hurts so BAD! Take it off!" I tried explaining that it was just a picture, the same as marker, and she kept up with the histrionics. Imagine waking up from a bender to discover that you have a full-color Winnie the Pooh tattoo on your neck, and also your leg has been amputated. It was like that.

I considered, during the screaming, a potential skin sensitivity to the chemicals in the tat. I tried a bandaid first, to determine the bull-hockey factor, and sure enough, it fixed it. Completely. Lordy. If we can get this much drama out of a Lutheran tattoo, what am I in for?