Painted

"Mama, I'm so sorry," said Little Dog walking up behind me in the kitchen. I turn around thinking this can't be good.
"What's did you do, Little Dog?" I say scanning him with my eyes looking for evidence of mayhem.
"I painted myself, mama. I'm so so sorry."
"Oh, that's not a big deal. I don't mind if you paint yourself, just don't get it on the furniture."
"But mama, I painted myself," he repeats with a pleading in his voice.
"Little Dog, it's ok. As long as it doesn't make a mess on the furniture I really don't mind," I reiterate. And he still looks confused. "Look," I say, pulling my shoe off and showing him the tattoo on my foot, then pulling up my pant leg on the opposite leg to show the dragonfly tattooed on my ankle. "See," I said watching his face register the idea, "I like to paint on myself too. I just have someone else do it." He turned his face up to me, beaming. "I really don't mind if you paint or draw on yourself as long as you only use your paints and markers, because those are safe and you are too young for tattoos."
"But when I'm a grown up?" he starts.
"Sure," I say, "when you're a grown up."