“Mom?” Sam asks, padding barefoot into the kitchen where I’m cleaning the breakfast dishes.
“What’s up babe?”
“Can I get a tattoo on my belly?”
“Of course,” I say as I place another dish in the wash. “What kind to you want?
“Two pirate swords that go like this.” He draws an ‘X’ in the air with his finger, and nods in satisfaction.
“Sounds good to me, babe. And you want a tattoo like that? Not just a sticker or something?” I feel obliged to offer an alternative.
“No, I want it to be there every day even when I take a bath.”
“Good thinking. How about we do that for your birthday?” That’s nine months away. What are the odds I’ll be held accountable for this particular promise.
“Okee doke,” he tosses over his shoulder as he pads out of the kitchen.
I love all my children, but conversations with Sam tend to add a certain lightness to the day.
I cannot WAIT to see if he remembers this in 9 months 🙂