Your children often ask you to do things that you don't want to do. And you do them anyway. Because you love them. And because they ask. Things could be worse. They could not ask for your help.My Darling Daughter Dora nee Sarah Starr, who as child I did my best to instill a love for dinosaurs, dinosaur fossils, and twenty foot prairie dogs wanted a tattoo. Of a dinosaur. On her arm.
It's not her first tattoo, which didn't come until she turned the legal age of 18, because as a parent, I had to draw lines SOMEWHERE. I had my reasons for the "not until you're 18", but don't recall them. They might have been reasonable, or they may not have been, but they were certainly parental. That first butterfly was later crushed by a robot and now the 'bot is set to battle the Age of Unreason.
I'm drawing different lines these days. Starr wanted a tattoo of a Tyrannosaurus rex on her arm, and since I have a Rare West Tibetan Mountain named Trex, rhymes with Tricks, short for T-Rex, and since I kept her up past her bedtime to watch Jurassic Park and Godzilla vs Mothra on late-nite tv, and since I'm the one who insisted we raid the dinosaur graveyard in the 110 degree South Dakota sun, the one who took her to see Cretaceous-shark's-teeth folk art interpretations of the Bible, the one who insisted she stare down the saber-tooth tiger... we'll she tapped me for the tat design.And how could I say no? So I didn't.
Ink by Jason Strait @ Mercy Seat Tattoo.
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