Tushies, Tattoos, and Truth

So it's no secret (or at least not now) that I have two tattoos. One on my ass. One on my ankle.

The one on my ass I like. It has meaning. It's small. And, plus, it's on my ass so even when I turn 70 and am wrinkly, who the hell will be looking at my ass?

I like the one on my ass as well, because no one gets to see it unless I show it to them. I mean, it's completely covered by bikini bottoms and other unmentionables.

The one on my ankle, well, don't like it so much. For one thing, it's ugly. It was a bad tattoo job. I regret it. I will get it removed one of these days.

So, the other day, while I was taking a shower, The Dictator was peaking at me behind the shower curtain.

Now, she usually showers with me, but sometimes it's just easier, and quicker, for me to shower by myself. Now I can just tell her, "You don't want to shower with me because the shampoo hurts your eyes, right?"

Because that's what she always says, rather cries. Anyway, when we don't shower together, she usually hangs with me in the washroom (Even when Nanny is around) and we chit chat.

The other day, she was looking at me in the shower and said, "Mommy, what's on your bum?"

Which gave me a pause.

I mean, I always imagined myself as the type of mother who is all about the truth. You want to know what that is? Well, that's a nipple. Half the time, The Dictator walks around saying stuff like, "I don't have a bra."

But, you know, I really didn't want my almost three year-old knowing about tattoos. Funny how that happens. I think I'll be okay if, one day, she wants her belly button pierced. Like when she's 17.

But tattoos? Nu-huh. I mean, frankly, I don't mind the idea of tattoos. On other people who are not my daughter. The problem is one usually regrets getting them. And, you only start to regret them a couple years after you get them, when you're older.

I'm a complete mother now, thinking, "No way is The Dictator going to get a tattoo because she'll regret it. No way is my daughter going to mark up her perfectly perfect skin."

So my answer was, "It's a sticker!"

To which The Dictator responded, "I want a sticker on my bum too."

To which I responded, "OK, you can have a sticker on your bum."

Thankfully, she's only almost three, which means her attention span is like a fleas. She forgot all about the "I want a sticker on my bum too," when she saw one of my OB tampons.

I mean, thank god she didn't ask what that was. I'm so not ready for that conversation.