The Permanent Bracelet

Newsletter 2025-04-13

I should have asked more questions. Or just any questions. Even one question would have been an improvement.

The text came in from a number I didn’t have saved in my phone. It asked if my nine-year-old, Waffle, could come over for a birthday party. Of course, the message didn’t call her “Waffle.” If I used her pseudonym in real life, someone would have contacted Child Protective Services by now. It’s not unusual for me to have random conversations about my children with unsaved numbers. In this instance, as in nearly all such cases, the text history showed that I contacted them, or that they contacted me, a year earlier to RSVP for a birthday party. I never save the number to my phone because I don’t expect to ever use it again. Yet the following year, there’s another birthday. And another birthday party. And another text exchange with the same unsaved number. It catches me by surprise every time.

This message was a little different. The mom (Or dad. Or Aunt. Or unrelated child guardian.) on the other end asked if I’d be okay with Waffle getting a permanent bracelet at the party. I didn’t know what that was. I also didn’t look into it. Like any rational adult, I used what little pre-existing information I had to make an uneducated guess. I assumed that a permanent bracelet was one of those semi-permanent temporary tattoos that lasts for a few weeks before fading away. Never mind that “semi-permanent” and “permanent” have opposite meanings. I simply couldn’t conceive that anything done at a child’s birthday party would really last forever. That was naive to say the least. Waffle regularly picks up scars that will stick around for the rest of her life. It’s not uncommon for her and her sisters to casually kick each other in the face because reasons. That actually made me less wary of the invitation. Any other house has to be safer than here.

I must admit I was a little jealous of Waffle’s invitation. I would rather die than hang out with a bunch of nine-year-olds, but I liked the idea of the semi-permanent tattoos. I’ve looked into getting some for myself. I’m far too flighty to ever commit to a real tattoo. I second guess everything I’ve ever said and done. I’d basically be paying a tattoo artist to physically install regret on my skin. But I could be happy with something for a few weeks, especially if it faded away on its own and could easily be hidden under a long sleeve shirt if the bad thoughts set in early. I went as far as comparing prices online. I thought it would be funny to completely cover my upper torso in fake tattoos for a beach day. The biggest drawback would be in applying them. I’m slightly hairier than a standard yeti. My wife correctly pointed out that I’d have to shave my arms and chest. That was a deal-breaker. Any task that requires even the most basic amount of grooming gets a hard no from me.

I dropped off Waffle at the party Saturday afternoon. The house was only a handful of blocks away from my own. I had evidently stopped there exactly one year before, but I had no memory of the place. It’s for the best that my brain has erased far more of my life than it’s retained. Otherwise I would have long ago died from self-inflicted cringe. I walked Waffle to the door and met the other kid’s mom for what was evidently the second or third time. I double-checked that I was supposed to pick up Waffle at 7 p.m.. My most important job as a parent is to eventually get my kid back. Anything more than that is overachieving. I left Waffle to enjoy the semi-permanent tattooing process and made the short drive home. The chaos that perpetually swirls around her was someone else’s problem for a while.

Halfway through the party, Waffle texted me to say the gathering had been extended by an hour. She asked if she could stay. I suspected the temporary tattoo process wasn’t going well. At least it had failed in a way that was taking longer rather than in a way that got Waffle sent home early. It’s the emergency evacuations that you have to worry about. I told Waffle she could stay. I probably didn’t give the matter the attention it deserved. I was distracted by my own concerns. I was hosting my usual group of friends and relatives-by-marriage for another three-TV day. We were watching Ted Lasso on the center screen and real soccer matches to both sides. My middle two children were gone to a BSA campout, which left only my fourteen-year-old, Betsy, at home. She was hanging out with the adults due to a lack of better options. Life is boring without sisters to antagonize. Turning the situation to our advantage, we badgered her to bake cookies and brownies for the group. As a teenager, Betsy is immensely vulnerable to peer pressure, but adult pressure has no effect. She is still, however, highly susceptible to bribery. She agreed to bake for us if I would do all the dishes afterward and let her buy a snack at the corner store where she had to go to buy more eggs. She drives a hard bargain.

Amid the negotiating, I forgot all about Waffle and her temporary ink. I didn’t remember she existed until my phone reminded me to pick her up. I quickly made the short drive. At the party house, I was greeted by a mob of little girls. They promised to fetch Waffle. As I waited, the birthday girl’s mom materialized. She seemed nervous and apologetic. She assured me that Waffle’s bracelet could be removed with a quick snip from a pair of scissors. I had no idea what she was talking about. Then Waffle appeared. She had a thin metal, gold-colored bracelet on her wrist. It didn’t have a clasp. The mom said it had a few extra links in it so Waffle could grow. I didn’t realize quite how “permanent” permanent really was until that moment. Unless scissors were involved. Then the bracelet wouldn’t make it through the night.

I asked Waffle for more details on the way home. She said a woman showed up at the start of the party to give all the girls their non-removable jewelry. She used some sort of heat gun or soldering iron to melt the links together. All the best parties involve a little bit of welding. I had drastically misinterpreted what was going to happen at the event. That was on me. It was my own fault for translating the original text message into different words with completely different meanings. Good luck shaking my pre-existing beliefs. My brain won’t be accepting new inputs now or ever again.

I could see how some moms and dads might be upset if their kids were given non-removable jewelry, even if it could be easily removed by breaking it. It’s a big fashion statement. Fortunately for that other mom—and for Waffle—I don’t care how my kid dresses. I’m happy she gets stressed at all. One of the best days of my life was when she could finally run her morning routine on her own. I don’t even have to be home any more. If I’m away, she still gets herself up, gets ready, and puts herself on the bus. I’ll know if she ever fails at that process when I get a call from the truant officer. That happened recently with Betsy. I got a voicemail from the high school that said she never showed up. I was more than a little alarmed. It turned out there was a miscommunication at the school. No one told the attendance officer that Betsy was on a field trip wrestling cattle or whatever it is she does for FFA. I have yet to receive a call like that for Waffle. If she wants a bracelet she can’t take off without ruining it, more power to her. She has her own sense of style, which is for the best. I pity any child who gets their fashion sense from me.

I would never choose to wear permanent jewelry. I don’t even wear my real wedding ring. It stays in a drawer in my bedroom. I got it slightly too big in anticipation of gaining weight over the course of my lifetime. I did, but not in my fingers. They stayed as weak and skinny as ever. My ring would fly off if I gesticulated wildly, which I always do. I don’t know how to talk without using my hands. If you tied them behind my back, I’d be mute. I bought a smaller metal wedding ring for eight dollars on eBay. I don’t like wearing that one, either. It got in the way at the gym, and I was afraid I’d lose it when I took it off. Instead, I replaced it with even cheaper silicone rings that I can wear all the time. Walmart sells them by the dozen, which reflects my ideal price point. The best part is I can take them off and shoot them like rubber bands. Predictably, I lose them frequently, which isn’t a problem when they have the same replacement cost as a stick of gum. Lola isn’t concerned when I’m temporarily ringless. She knows no other woman will swoop in to claim me. She doesn’t want to claim me herself.

The biggest downside of Waffle’s permanent bracelet is that everyone will know exactly who was invited to the party—and who wasn’t. Things are going to be very awkward for anyone who doesn’t show up to school Monday with new bling. That’s the kind of third grade drama that lifetime grudges are made of. Hopefully all the girls in her class were invited. I didn’t do a headcount, but there were an unreasonable number of little kids in that house. All of this assumes that any of the bracelets actually make it to Monday. If they can be removed by a pair of scissors, they lack the tensile strength to survive Waffle’s daily life. It’s only a matter of time until she snags that bracelet on something and snaps it in half. That something will most likely be a sibling’s face. Until then, Waffle will have the fanciest wrist in the family. My biggest fear isn’t that she’ll break the jewelry, but that she’ll figure out how to repair it. The last thing I need is that kid with a soldering iron.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James