A friend of mine was sitting on one of our kitchen stools. My preschooler comes up behind her with a dripping washcloth. Exactly even with his line-of-sight is a small swatch of her exposed back, right where her T-shirt and jeans don’t quite meet.
“Ahhhh!” She shouts, jumping to her feet.
Guiltily, he holds out the washcloth.
“What are you doing?” I ask, tersely.
He throws up his hands, angry that I’m angry. “Cleaning!” he shouts. As if it’s painfully obvious why he was scrubbing her back, he shakes the washcloth in the air.
My friend and I look at each other, puzzled.
Then my friend touches the small of her back, and a grin spreads across her face. “My tattoo!” she laughs. “He was trying to scrub off my tattoo for me!”
Sure enough, she has a tattoo on the small of her back, and he was trying to help out and “clean it off,” just like I’m constantly scrubbing his dirty little hands and face with a washcloth.
11 months ago