Pen markings cover the boy’s arms. He looks like a motorcycle gang member. If they wore little boy scribble tattoos, that is.
“What happened here?” I ask, beginning to scrub him with a washcloth.
I finish scrubbing his arms before I notice his feet. These are covered with marker. I don’t know how he got a marker — they really are a controlled substance in this house. All the older kids know that they are allowed to have markers, but only if they keep them locked away somewhere. If I ever see one, I have permission to throw it away. Such has been my joy-filled relationship with markers over the years.
I scold as I begin scrubbing his feet now.
“You should never write on your body! Writing is only for paper.”
“I keep forgetting to remember that,” my little guy tells me, biting his lower lip as his eyes grow wide with earnest. “But that scrubbing is reminding me real good.”