Crayola Kisses

Biker girl with a rough edge and tied on shirt, I am not, but I must confess I have quite a few tattoos.

I know, it's scandalous for a mother to wear her artistic side in public, in full view for every Tom, Dick and "park mom" to see.
But it's gotten to the point where I can't cover it up anymore.
A red squiggle into a capital "A" on my right hand gives me away. I've been marked by my middle daughter Abby.
Abby is 4-years-old and enjoys drawing flowers and practicing writing her name backwards and upside down. Someday she will make a great navigator for the Navy where writing backwards on Plexiglas comes in handy.
In her spare time, she colors herself lime green and swears she is Tinkerbelle.
She is the squishy middle child and enjoys being "the good one"-- though I secretly fear she's practicing to be the shy quiet girl who is wild on the side in high school. I need to watch her extra closely.

If you look closely, purple circles wrap their wiggling bands around my calves. Even my neck has been kissed by Crayola-- this would be the work of a fine budding artist called Nikki.
Nikki is 2-years old and dabbles in everything messy. You want splattered mud design. I've got a dose with some grass clippings smeared in for good measure.
The child is perpetually dirty. If it's not mud on her face, then she's unlocked the cupboard and stolen some Ovaltine.
She is addicted to the stuff and will have fine bones and teeth when she is older.
In her spare time, she redecorates my walls with abstract art and muddy handprints.

Look a little lower-- like onthe bottom of my feet, and you'll see a lady bug staring up at the stars.
This art comes courtesy of Miss Maggie, my 7-year-old daughter.
She's the one who first introduced me to Mulan's arm notes. When she was barely 2, she'd scribble in black marker all over her arm and pretend she was reading her notes before her matchmaker.
Now, that she is 7, things aren't so innocent. Her dream is to get a real tattoo someday when she's a big girl-- a scrollwork on her lower back with flowers would suit her fine.
She's my mouthy child who thinks she's running a marathon to teenagehood.
But she's my Maggie Moo, my first born-- the parental guinea pig.
And so, I indulge her and let her draw trees and flowers, ladybugs and stars all over my feet and arms.
Hey it washes off--and at least this way it stays off the wall.
Well, sometimes it doesn't wash off and that's when I go grocery shopping with a red squiggly A on my right hand.