The Tag Artist

I am not a huge fan of graffiti. It is fine if it is artistically done and placed there with the owner's permission. We have an area in town where all of the buildings have giant graffiti murals and some of them are truly beautiful.

But, most often in our tiny town, we just have young kids with spray paint cans writing their names (or expletives, or gang names, or pictures of gigantic boobs) where ever they feel like. There is nothing artistic or beautiful about black paint that was placed with a very heavy and (I am guessing) angry trigger finger. Paint that was applied without thought to how it would streak down the sides of the building or look in the daylight. There is really nothing attractive about misspelled cuss words that linger for years until someone actually takes the time to clean it up. Most often with a shade of paint that is just one shade off from the rest of the building. It reminds me of a band-aid.

These delinquents are now running in some fine company. Namely, my daughter Z. Now that she knows how to write her name, she is tagging everything with a ferocity that I have never seen before. She loves her own name.   She names every creature that she happens upon, "Z". She has tried to rename the cat and the fish. And she writes her name on everything.

The side of the fish bowl? Check. Marker won't work on glass? It's okay, momma's lipstick will.

Her shoes? Check. Pen not getting that point across? It's okay, I think I saw a sharpie up on that bookshelf. I just have to climb up the back of the sofa to get it.

Clothes? Yep. Sharpie not really getting it for you, fabric moving too much? It's alright, the nail polish hidden in the back of the cupboard of momma's bathroom will do the trick.

Baby Dolls? You got it. She writes her name in pen on the back of every doll she owns.

She fell asleep before I did last night.

I woke up to find her sleeping next to me.

And her name written in pen across the bottom of my foot.