Macbeth: "What's done cannot be undone!"

I didn't notice it before but most of my family's communications begin with a more-or-less common theme:

• "Don't tell Daddy about this but...", 
• "Your Mother doesn't need to know this but...", 
• "Look, don't tell Savannah I told you this but...", 
• "The less Sydney knows about this, the better...", and naturally, the standard, 
• "Let's just keep this between us." 

Sad as it is, the even sadder part is that we all immediately run around telling each other everything the moment it is reported to us. This is accompanied by the requisite, "You can't let So-and-So know that I told you this but..." We are the WORST.

But kudos to Sydney Lynn for really trying to give secret-keeping a go. She failed miserably, of course, but one must really admire the attempt. How was she to know, as she skulked off to some back-alley scratcher, that her sister would need emergency eye surgery causing her mother to fly some three thousand miles, thus uncovering Sydney's little secret?

"Why would I care that Sydney got a tattoo?" I asked my husband, "She IS an adult." I thought about some reasons why one might not want to get a tattoo. Leviticus 19:28 is pretty clear on the subject but I just got done with Numbers 5 so I am definitely steering clear of Old Testament practices for a while lest Brad be inflamed with unfounded jealousy and drag me to a priest so that I can be given bitter waters to curse my womb. Jesus doesn't care what's on Sydney's skin...He cares about what is in her heart. Naturally, I hoped she'd avoided any unintentional gang-related affiliation symbols. "Oh my goodness," I gasped suddenly, fearing the worst, "What if the font is in Helvetica?"  Brad was quick to reassure me. "She would never do that to you," he soothed. Our family has been anti-Helveticans for YEARS.

But yet, with all that, something nagged at me. Why was I bothered by this? It took a bit of time to process my conflicting feelings but after a long night of tumultuous slumber, it came to me. It wasn't the tattoo that bothered me. No...let me re-phrase that. It wasn't Sydney's act of getting tattooed that bothered me (Although I wished she'd been a bit more discriminating in her selection of a reputable parlor:  "Sydney Lynn, how did you decide on this particular artist?" I asked, hoping to hear on-line accolades citing sanitation. "It was the closest one in walking distance," my adult daughter told me.).  It was the tattoo. A bad-ass quote from Macbeth.  Macbeth? Harry Potter...I would have understood. Would have immediately identified with Game of Thrones. Had she inked anything having to do with Greek Mythology...I would have been consumed with jealousy. But sweet Sydney Lynn stepped out from under the safe, protective shelter of her mother's limited literary umbrella and is now twirling in the rain...without me. 

I wasn't mad. I wasn't disappointed or disapproving. I was selfishly sad. A story is being written without my narrative. As a parent, I am now prologue. But once I finish getting over myself, I shall revel in reading about Sydney's adventures...her odyssey. I will rejoice in her victories. Celebrate her triumphs. Weep when she stumbles. Let us remember, friends, as we all learned in Macbeth,  Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. This is Sydney's tale and I can't wait to read it. As long as she steers clear of Helvetica.