At Least It's Not A Tattoo
I stood on the door step and tapped lightly on the frosted glass. I'd told Meagan I'd be round to pick her up after school on Friday. I glanced at my watch. I was a little late. About ten minutes. A shadow moved beyond the glass and the door opened.
"Hi Dad!"
"Hi Scout," I began.
There was something odd in her expression. Apprehension, I think. My gaze fell from her blue eyes to her awkward smile and it was then that I noticed it. She'd had her lip pierced. There was a silver ring with a coloured bead through the lower righthand corner of her mouth.
"What happened to your lip?" I asked.
"I got it pierced," she said. "Do you like it?"
She knew my answer before I gave it.
"No, Meagan. I'm afraid I don't. I don't like it at all."
The voice in my head was loud. She's still your daughter. She's still your little Scout. Still the same inside. The part you love cannot be altered.
"But I still like you. I still love you, and that's what counts, right?"
The girl is ever ready for confrontation these days and my attempt at back-paddling did nothing to assuage her teenage petulance.
"I knew you'd freak out, Dad."
Then why on earth did you do it, I thought. But I didn't say it, Ms J. Instead, I defended myself against her allegation.
"I'm not freaking out, Meagan. I just said I'm not crazy about you getting your face pierced, that's all."
I thought of Kelly and I felt myself getting angry. What kind of parent would allow - indeed pay for - their thirteen year-old daughter to have her beautiful face mutilated this way? I realized I was over-reacting; I kept my thoughts to myself.
My daughter stood in the doorway and regarded me with a frazzled and frustrated expression.
"Why don't we just do this then, Dad? Just tell me it looks nice, then I'll turn my back for a minute while you have your little process. OK?"
I sighed and blinked slowly. My eyes kept moving toward the hardware in her lip and I forced myself again to look away. Why, oh why has she done this, I thought. I cannot win this contest, I thought. But this is no contest, is it? This is Life. And Life is not a contest.
"OK, Scout. It looks nice."
"Thank you," she said and turned away.
I was still "processing" when she turned to face me again.
"Dad," she said. "Dad? Are you nearly finished? We should get going."
We shared a laugh and walked together to the car in the late afternoon sunshine.
It's Saturday morning now. I still hate that ring. But I still love that girl.
***
Mused by Dale @ 9:27 am
At 12 November 2005 at 14:48, 
Zette said...
At 12 November 2005 at 16:54, Michelle said...
At 12 November 2005 at 21:22, Anvilcloud said...
At 25 November 2005 at 17:56, 
said...
4 Comments:
They sure grow up fast, don't they? The ring is nothing more than her trying to fit in with her peers and express her individual self, separate from her parents. I love your attitude of seeing past it and knowing she is still the little girl you have always loved, no matter what book cover she's wearing.
She really is quite mature to suggest an out for both of you instead of wanting and waiting for a fight. LOL....we ALL need time to "process" when the fact that our babies are growing up hits us upside the head!
Dale your attitude is brilliant! I couldn't of handled it better myself. Although she has such a pretty face.....no need to put holes in it!
I have been coached on what to say: something like, "It wouldn't suit me/everyone (or some such), but it kind of works for you (or some such)." But I haven't done well at following that advice. I figure, if you don't want to hear the answer, don't ask the question.
I'm heavily and colorfully tattooed. Both arms, from wrist to shoulder; my chest; my back is a Work-In-Progress.
I spent 25 adult years in Israel where, more often than not, I wore short-sleeved shirts or T-shirts. There wasn't a day or a place where I wasn't asked about them. Oftentimes, when I'd gotten up on the bus, in order to give my seat to a Senior, they'd thank me, and then show me the numbers tattooed into their forearms.
As my daughters grew up, I told them stories about getting tattooed -- the circumstances under which I got each one, who tattooed them, and I never failed to tell and retell and reinforce the problems which my tattoos caused for me.
When Shira, my older daughter, turned 18, the first thing she said to me was, "Daddy, I want to get a tattoo." I felt like Rodney Dangerfield. Then I asked her if she'd heard what I was saying, all those years. Then I went out and found the best tattoo shop in Tel-Aviv (clean, antiseptic practices, and good work), and took her there to look through the flash.
I spoke with the owner about this-and-that, then she made an appointment. We came back, and she paid for it.
All we can do is talk to our children, listen to them, watch (and hurt) when they make their mistakes, and love them.
Thank G-d it wasn't a tribal tattoo!
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