So Mark and I head over to pick up Kate from school. We’re a little early, and he’s whooped from walking all the way from preschool. There’s a short retaining wall right outside the door where Kate will come out, and two mommies are already sitting there. But they have foolishly left 4.5 inches between themselves.
Mark plops himself between them. He’s cute, so they tolerate this.
He turns to the mommy on his left. “I’m MarkPatrick–”
He stops cold, and reaches out to touch her bicep, which is smack at his eye-level. There, just peeking out of her sleeve, is a thumb-sized tattoo of a butterfly. “What is THAT?”
She laughs. “It’s a butterfly.”
Mark ignores this answer, although it’s obvious (but hopefully just to me) from his face that he considers that to be a STUPID answer, of course it’s a butterfly, what he wants to know is how did she get the picture there? He says none of this, not from tact but distraction. A new thought has clearly occurred to him. Is this standard issue for moms? Do they ALL have these awesome butterfly pictures on their arms?
He whips around to the mommy on his right and pulls her sleeve up.
No butterfly. “Awww.”
The second mommy laughs too. “I don’t have a butterfly. But I do have this!” She shows him her other arm, which has an even bigger tattoo, scrolling all the way along her forearm.
Mark is ecstatic. “Ooooo! What is it?”
“My son’s name.”
Satisfied at the results of his social observations, Mark hops down and proceeds to wheedle another little boy into letting him play football with him. Unfortunately, Mark turns out to be a proponent of the running game. That is, he snags the kid’s ball and takes off with it and is Most Aggrieved when Mama makes him give it back.