Earlier tonight, while Andrew was playing with one of those magnetized drawing toys:
Me: "Andrew, it's 8:00. Five more minutes, and we're going upstairs for stories."
Andrew: "Okay, just let me finish giving myself a tattoo."
I quickly looked, of course, having visions of Sharpie doodles all over him...only to find, thank goodness, that he was pretending to draw on himself with the pen on a string that goes with the toy. I was kind of surprised, because although my sisters and brother both have tattoos, we've never really discussed them, ever. So I took the bait.
Me: "Why do you want a tattoo?"
Andrew: "Because Chloe said I needed one."
Turns out Chloe has a one of those temporary tattoos, of Scooby Doo, no less--that was sure to impress Andrew. And while I chuckled and repeated the conversation to his daddy, it hit me that we could be having this very same conversation in about twelve years, and it probably wouldn't be funny. Wanting a tattoo is one thing, but wanting it because some little Jezebel tells him he needs one is a different thing all together. Girls, back off! The only female telling my son what to do is ME.