Yes, that is my very own ankle (please ignore the bad photo quality — it’s hard to take a good picture at that angle). There’s a story there, of course — apart from the obvious one — but it’s not nearly as involved as the story of the bee tattoo. See, Lydia has a friend who has a tattoo gun and some months ago she presented me with a fait accompli — three small tattoos, one of which was my name, in that same font, on her right foot.

Though I wasn’t particularly pleased, it’s difficult to look unkindly on that sort of display from one’s sixteen-year-old daughter. I suggested that I get a matching one later on, and this afternoon I did it (trusting my skin to no one other than a professional, however). The plan had been to get the same placement as hers, on the inside of my foot, but the tattooist wouldn’t do it there, saying the results are generally poor — something that unfortunately has turned out to be true for Lydia — and there is a small risk of infection from covering it with shoes and socks. I had been rather dreading having my foot tattooed, so I didn’t mind moving it up several inches.

Now I have to start thinking about where I’ll put the rest of the kids’ names …