I hate the idea of my kids getting a tattoo – so I made them a deal

I told my four children if they made it to 25 years old with no tattoos then they’d earn themselves a generous cash prize. But I fear at least one of them will be disqualified.

Fresh tattoo: I now have it from three different sources about what, exactly, is under the sock.

Well that was a mistake. Telling the wide-eyed tribe, when they were all very young, that if they reached the grand old age of 25 without a single tattoo then their grateful mum would give them, oh, let’s say … $5,000. Each. As reward. It was a throwaway line, and 25 felt so very far away, and of course I’d be drowning in riches in the future, because isn’t life about the upward curve? Five big ones would be nothing by then, I thought. And anyway, they’d forget.

Those little buggers did not forget. In fact it’s now the family joke related once too often, especially around the Christmas table. Ah yes, my annual reminder. “Mum’s giving us five grand on our 25th birthdays.” Followed by the gleeful cackle. “Guess what I’m getting the day after?” Oh the laughter, the teasing, from the lot of them.

Several of them are now inching perilously close to that magic age of maternal largesse. And they keep on reminding me, and I do not have a spare five grand to splash upon them and, yes, I do feel honour-bound to keep up my end of the bargain. And the teens in the mix are bringing up the rearguard, gleeful and mercenary in their tight little sibling pack. Five grand times four? Ouch.

Which brings me to the recent mystery of … The Sock. It was Christmas Day in Far North Queensland. A wonderful gathering at my mother-in-law’s house. We took lots of family photos, because it’s rare to get all six of us together now and I get a bit joyfully, tearfully excited at the assemblage. And the eldest ones have come out the other side of that intense teen mortification at doing anything with their hugely embarrassing olds. So here they all were. Deliciously. In shot.

Yet one of them, I noted belatedly, was wearing socks. In every family photo. Among a sea of bare feet, in the humid heat of Cairns. Thick, white, ankle socks. The beloved child was even, most dedicatedly, sleeping in them. What on Earth could be the reason for this curious choice of attire in such a climate?

The mum-radar pinged. Went on high alert. Did they really think they could thwart the laser-focused mother-detector in their midst? I now have it from three different sources about what, exactly, is under the sock. On an ankle. Something that this mother will never, ever catch sight of – at least until a certain birthday has been safely passed.

All of the children support a Premier League soccer team; the passion is fervent. Could this be the reason for the tattoo? Picture: Carl Recine/Getty Images

And what exactly is the offending inking? Three of my little adorables were born in the UK, despite having two Aussie parents. All of them support a Premier League soccer team; the passion is fervent. In the early hours of the mornings, throughout footy season, the house is like midday in Bourke Street Mall with quite the gathering in front of the box. (Mum is blissfully asleep, as heading to bed by about, oh, 9pm is the dream. But the rest of them, night owls.) And for some bizarre reason they’ve all chosen different teams to support. Man U, Chelsea, Everton and Wolverhampton. And which of those do you think has a symbol easy to replicate in tattoo form (but “really badly”, I’m reliably informed, with snigger.)

I’ve been told the ankle sock is never coming off in my presence, until 25 is hit. I chuckle every time I think of it. Don’t this lot realise that they’ve been put on this planet to make their parents laugh? But actually, I’m in a bit of a bind here. Because aside from the riches I foolishly promised them once, I gave them one other tattoo pledge that was intended to keep the ink off their precious skin (motherhood is all about bribery and negotiation in these parts.) I told each one of them that if they ever did get a tatt, at any age, then I, as their mother, would get one exactly the same in exactly the same spot. So. Good one, Mum. They may well have the last laugh.