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But still I wait. Maybe during his school years he thought a tattoo would balance the geeky glory of academic achievement. I thought about it. I went to a professional. It seems to me, unhinged by shock, that this might have been the better option. I can hardly bear to look at him. I decide this is rational. The last thing we need, I think, is an explosion of white-hot words that everyone carries around for the rest of their lives, engraved on their hearts. It would really upset me if you did this. Why would you want to, anyway?

You hope the next generation will be better, stronger, more generous. I know all you can do as a parent is to pack their bags and wave as you watch them go. So I cry instead.

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I have a lump in my throat that stops me from eating. I feel as if someone has died. I keep thinking of his skin, his precious skin, inked like a pig carcass. So many teenagers are doing it. Tattoos are everywhere. They seem no more alternative than piercings these days.

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Sam Cam with her smudgy dolphin, the heavily tattooed at Royal Ascot — these people are role models? As if the Joker had made face paints from acid. Your youthful passion for ever on display, like a CD of the Smiths stapled to your forehead. The British Association of Dermatologists recently surveyed just under patients with visible tattoos. Nearly half of them had been inked between the ages of 18 and 25, and nearly a third of them regretted it. I look up laser removal. Which is a possibility, I think miserably, that only works if you want a tattoo removed.

My son is. I shake my head. LikeI am hoping that if I keep my eyes tightly shut the whole thing will disappear. No one will ever know. Or an ant. I meet a colleague for lunch. It can damage your work prospects. This level of grief is absurd. But I feel as though a knife is twisting in my guts. I get angry with myself. This is nothing but snobbery, I think — latent anxiety about the trappings of class. As if my son had deliberately turned his back on a light Victoria sponge and stuffed his face with cheap doughnuts. I am aware, too, that I associate tattoos on men with aggression, the kind of arrogant swagger that goes with vest tops, dogs on chains, broken beer glasses.

Is this what other women feel? Or perhaps, I think, with an uncomfortable lurch of realisation, just what older women feel. Tattoos used to be the preserve of criminals and toffs. And sailors. Tattoos, then, were intensely practical, like brightly coloured smit marks on sheep. Perhaps even then this was a fashion statement, a badge of belonging. Or just what you did after too much rum. Later, the aristocracy flirted with body art. We sit down with cups of coffee.

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I open my mouth to speak and end up crying instead. He is cool and detached. I think, but I have! These are rehearsed lines, clever insults flung across the dispatch box. This is what comes of not exploding in anger in the heat of the moment. So who knows? Maybe we paid for it. Your house, your rules. A lie. Grovelling self-abasement might help.

I look at him, sitting there, my year-old son.

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I will never look at you in the same way again. All those years of looking after your body — taking you to the dentist and making you drink milk and worrying about green leafy vegetables and sunscreen and cancer from mobile phones. And then you let some stranger inject ink under your skin.

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To me, it seems like self-mutilation. I would have done everything to make you feel better. But this — this is desecration. And I hate it. Over the next few days, my son — always covered up — talks to me as if the row had never happened. I talk to him, too, but warily. And this is when I realise that all my endless self-examination was completely pointless. Because this is the point. Tattoos are fashionable. They may even be beautiful. But by deciding to have a tattoo, my son took a meat cleaver to my apron strings. He may not have wanted to hurt me.

But my feelings, as he made his decision, were completely unimportant. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. My son's tattoo hurt me deeply. When Tess Morgan's son came home with a tattoo, she was griefstricken.

She knew her reaction was OTT he's 21 but it alled a change in their relationship.

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Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian. Tess Morgan. Topics Family Relationships Parents and parenting features. Reuse this content.

Mature older lady or bbw to sneak into my parents house

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My son's tattoo hurt me deeply