To my son, a tattoo is a “tootat.” That’s how it came out when he first repeated the term at the age of 2 1/2. Instead of correcting him, our family adopted his version. How could we not when it’s the greatest inversion ever uttered? “Tootat” has become my mythical band name, the moniker I’d give a dog if we weren’t allergic, and the vanity license plate of my dreams. Last month we stumbled upon a fire department fundraiser in a grocery store parking lot. We threw a few dollars into an upturned helmet and a smiling volunteer handed us a goody bag. To my son’s ebullience, a whole sheet of tatoos was hiding behind a stop, drop and roll pamphlet. When we returned home, he rushed to fetch a wet washcloth. He knows every step of the process, how to peel back the acrylic cover, plop the exposed paper onto his skin and soak it for fifteen seconds. Waiting for the transfer, he counted “one…two…three…” with an earnestness that tipped the earth’s axis definitively towards goodness. As soon as he finished one tatoo, he applied another until his forearms were covered. He’s unlike his sister, who meters abundance to prolong it. Knowing what joy tatoos bring, I often resolve to buy them at the store. But I always forget. It’s for the best; part of their magic is that they appear in my son’s life rarely and unexpectedly. If he’s lucky, he might grasp one raining down from a birthday pinata. Or turn his token in the toy dispenser just when the right container clicks into the chute. Having a drawer full of tatoos would remove something ineffable from the experience. Temporary or permanent, tattoos have in inalienable carpe diem about them. Not the full body-art variety, but the rogue word or graphic hidden at the belt line or the nape of the neck. I’ve never been tempted by the ink needle. But if I were, “tootat” would be my choice. All lowercase, Helvetica.
A toddler’s calling a tattoo “Tootat” (and other like “mistakes” that pop up like mushrooms after the rain) can keep us, as parents of young children, constantly weighing pros and cons. “Tootats”: SO adorable (as was “ding ding” that my once young son named a railroad semaphore). In my head, a tiny voice would say (after a year or two) SHOULD I correct that toddler’s lingering misnomer? As for a “tootat”, similarly, if toddler wears a pretend tattoo today, will he, SOMEDAY, be a dermagraphic wonder guy? Continuing my parental angst, SHOULD I forever allow my toddler to wear his socks MISmatched, his clothes inside-out and never comb his hair when we go out? Might I be underwriting the beginning of a life-long laissez faire sartorial mindset (my mind fast-forwarding to an image of my adorable toddler to age 25; my Man-child showing up for an important job interview – still with his shirt and trousers inside-out, hair askew). Taking the longer view and feeling more secure these days, I am a little more relaxed. “Toddler” son has turned out JUST FINE (respectable job and all !) and we can laugh and quietly wink to each other about the semaphore’s long ago endearing name. “Ding ding” memory – I love you !
Charming! Great memories from moments with the children.
I remember one guy who replied when asked by his Gram R – “What do you have in your pocket?” The answer was always “Anything”!
Love,
PHR
Having a dad who was a coach at a local university meant that dad was gone a lot at games and practices. My younger son would ask, “Daddy at ‘prastic’?”. We, too, adopted the term into our family vernacular. The day came, sadly, when he stopped saying ‘prastic’ and directed us to say practice. I miss those days!