Mental Puddle

There’s an old Bill Cosby sketch where he talks about raising a son (yes, I know … Bill Cosby; don’t @ me—it’s a good sketch and we’re not debating art from fallen artists here). Not quoting, but he says something like, “Your boy is born. As soon as you can, you put a walnut in his hand to get him used to gripping the pigskin. When he’s old enough, you play catch with him in the yard every day. He gets older and you coach his peewee football team. He goes to high school and you teach him all your best moves from your All State days. When he scores, you look around at all the parents in the stands and say, ‘That’s right. That’s my boy!’ He gets a college scholarship. You call all your friends and family and have a big watch party. He gets in the game! He takes a pitch and takes it straight to the house! You look at everyone at the party and say, ‘That’s my boy!’ He goes to sit on the bench. The camera finds him. It zooms in on him. Here comes your moment. He smiles. He waves. He flashes his number one sign. The camera closes in on his face and he exclaims, ‘Hi, Mom!’”

A year or so ago, Lucia announced she was getting a tattoo. I didn’t pay much attention to this—she’s an adult, so whatever. Home on break, she made an appointment with our friend Bree. When she got home, she had some lovely stenciling of the letters SEM.

“Do you like it, Dad?”

“What does it stand for?”

“Those are Sofia’s initials. She got my initials on her.”

“Your first tattoo is Sofia’s initials?”

“Are you mad I got a tattoo?”

This is a loaded question. Latter-day Saints have traditionally been anti-tattoo, but my brother has several and I couldn’t care less.

“No. I mean, I fathered you, your mother birthed you, we paid for your life, and your first tattoo is … your friend. Why should I be mad?”

Lu rolled her eyes. “She’s my best friend. We did it together.”

“I’m your dad. But it’s cool. Same thing as a potted plant around here.”

“Daaaad!”

“I mean, it’s on you now forever, so whatever.”

“I will get something to represent you and Mom,” said Lu.

Lauren, helpful as always, chimed in: “Lu and I have the same initials, so technically, Sofia tattooed me on her too.”

“Tremendous,” I said. I moved across the room, stood behind our decorative tree, and shaped my arms like branches. “Just say hi once in a while when you stop by to pick the money off me.”

“Daaaad!”

Lindsay just turned eighteen and now wants a tattoo. What will be your first tattoo, Lindsay?

“Mental puddle. Right on my forearm.”

“Why on God’s green earth would you put that label on yourself?”

“Cuz you’re always telling us not to be mental puddles. It’s a reminder.”

Good lord.

We debated this for a while and she had moved on to abbreviating and adding “Don’t be a MP,” but then I pointed out that it could be a or an, depending on how you read it. And maybe it might be better to use positive psychology on her body.

The ever helpful Lauren agreed and suggested, I want it more.

“Great,” I said, “if you’re starting an Only Fans.”

So right now there is no tattoo appointment set for the Thanksgiving holiday week while slogans get debated.

I’m reminded, though, that Lu went back for a second tattoo this summer. Surely, her mom or dad, right? Lol. Silly you.

Sigh. I for one am super proud to have my permanent legacy be mental puddle. I owe a lot to the people who have made me what I am, who have helped me become such a positive influence in the world, who can stand proudly with me and remind the world, When the chips are down and the stakes are high, don’t be a mental puddle.

And to all those who made me what I am, I have only one thing to say: Hi, Mom!