I am the mother of a daughter with tattoos. Currently, her body is the canvas for eleven inked masterpieces. Not one of them is a dragon. If only she had chosen a dragon, I might have been inspired to write a wildly popular trilogy. Sadly, that book ship has sailed.  An innocent, purple and yellow swallowtail resting gently on a delicate green vine artfully stained on my daughter’s sixteen year old shoulder is where this story begins.

I belonged to a close knit small community and a sister-hood of other mothers. They began to rally around me as news of my daughter’s tattoo spread. They wanted to comfort me in my time of certain disappointment and I dare say, “Shame.” In an effort to halt  the embarrassing judgments dripping out of their busy mouths, I interrupted with my humble explanation.

The girl had presented me with a fully researched argument essay. The essay, complete with citations, provided me with a rare insight not only into this middle daughter but adolescence in general. Fuzzy flashes of memory flickered of my own unoriginal, self- esteem struggling, pre -formed self. I took her to get the tattoo. Some of my friends got it, most did not. Word spread around our small town, prayer chains were alerted.

I believe most thought the tattoo epidemic was on its way to our small town. It begins with one. Soon other’s will be joining the line at “Miss Woo’s Tattoos.” My popularity slipped a bit. I walked as tall as my short frame allowed and carried on.

From my seat in the bleachers I watched my two oldest girls cheering on the high school football team. Frowning as I considered how cold their little legs must be. I blame the frown for what happened next. An unknown woman next to me asked if I was looking at the girl with the trashy tattoo. No way! No way could she see the tattoo hidden under the varsity sweater. When she saw my quizzical look, she pointed to the track below. I glanced sideways at her; she then proceeded to tell me that while you couldn’t see the girl’s tattoo you could probably tell which one she was just by the look of her and that she noticed I had been watching her. She interpreted my stunned silence as permission to carry on. It seemed that her daughter had pointed my daughter out in an effort to convince her that even good, popular, smart, cheerleading type of girls got tattoos at sixteen. Finally, I found my voice, extended my hand which she took and shook.

My introduction included my name and my relationship to the girl with the tattoo as well as another of the cheerleaders. It turned out that she knew my other daughter. Shutting up was not in this woman’s bag of tricks. She relayed that she knew my other daughter. And continued with some madness comparing-blah blah…so differ… best of paren…hope for…blah blah.

Epilogue: Our daughters are now grown women. The daughter with the trashy tattoo, is now a mother to one adorable little son. She is overworked, cranky, a little too sarcastic and swears like sailor. She is also beautiful, smart, thoughtful, and confident. The parent approved tattoo probably had very little to do with her confidence as she grew, but in my heart I know it helped just a little. To my knowledge there never was a tattoo epidemic among sixteen year olds in our small town.

Moral of the story: Rules may not apply.