When I get the itch to rebel, I respond swiftly and to the point. The same as when I get a mid-month craving for chocolate chip cookies – mix, bake, scarf. Nip it in the bud and get on with your life.
For some moms the need to break out is resolved with a pedicure here or there, a night out with the she tribe, a little slutty off the shoulder number worn to a PTA meeting. And for others the denouement is a bit more overt – a Valium here or there, a night out with someone else’s husband, a little slutty off the shoulder number slung stage right during a pole dance.
I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.
For those of you who may not know me personally it will suffice to say that for me the drive toward self expression is constant (if not incessant). And after self-expressing two children into this world, my need for expression of the rebellious type has increased.
Enter tattooing. The safest and least disruptive way to rebel every – single – day (that little squeak was my heart seizing up with happiness).
Allow me to offer a self portrait that my husband pointed out might represent life just perfectly at the present moment, where with every small attempt at rebellion comes an equally wholesome and amenable counterpart. ie: my artsy photographic moment is enriched by a streaking two year old.
I’ll take this as proof that little dude and I really are cut from the same cloth.