My boys love temporary tattoos. The love of tattoos seems to skip generations in our family. I’m not tattooed (sorry to be morbid, but I’d like the option of Jewish burial); my dad’s tattoo was an homage to his much-beloved, long-departed, tattooed grandpa.
Recently, a local artist was photographing tattoos and collecting the stories of the tattoos and so she photographed my dad and recorded his story, and then requested a snapshot of the boys with him, showing off their tattoos:
My dad brought a whole packet of tattoos from the toy store and, because they are temporary, the boys enjoy picking new ones. Graeme was really excited to pick this one after the Jolly Roger one, even though he doesn’t look happy in the picture (he has a touch of fever)–
He kept calling it a ‘Chinese’ tattoo, which puzzled me until we brought home the supplies for our sacred weekly ritual: Chinese takeout.
Look! Graeme said. It’s my Chinese tattoo!
Well, okay. Guess I passed on that part of American Jewishness…