Woo-hoo! I did it. I did it. I really, really did it. At age 69, I got my first (and most likely only) tattoo.
I’d toyed with the idea for years but couldn’t find the right design—something meaningful enough to display on my body for the rest of my life. I’d contemplated different animals, shapes and significant words. But nothing spoke to me. Not even a whisper.
Our youngest daughter, Ingrid, has had no such reservations. She got her first tattoo (the word “warrior”) on her 16th birthday and now at age 20 proudly displays a dozen tattoos, including five butterflies that signify her two parents and three siblings. A touching tribute to her family. Joining Ingrid on many of these “inking” sessions renewed my interest in getting my own tattoo. But the painful part of the process gave me pause. The part where tiny needles penetrate your skin for agonizing minutes.
So, I continued to mull over the idea for a while. A long while.
I convinced myself I’d forge ahead if I narrowed down my options. Since my husband and I are intrigued with paranormal activity, either a UFO or Bigfoot tattoo seemed suitable.
We’re crazy cat people, so a finicky feline was a possibility.
I love nature. Something scenic could work.
Perhaps an hourglass-shaped dulcimer like the one I play.
But I didn’t “love” any of those ideas enough to move forward. Which steered me toward a “love” theme. And what says love better than hearts? Four of them. One for each of my children. Generic, but still sentimental.
Ingrid, my tattoo expert, had a better idea: Have each child draw his or her own personalized heart. That sealed the deal. And for once I was truly excited. Ingrid drew hers first in just a few seconds. It was plain, petite and perfect.
Our oldest son Mitchell’s first attempt was too large and elaborate. His second try produced a much smaller, distinctive design with the lines crossing at the bottom of the heart. I reminded the other two of their assignment several times. No response, although they were probably busy sketching their unique images.
I eventually gave them a two-week deadline. Marlowe came through with an original design by placing two downward lines inside the heart curves.
That left Ruby. I sent pictures of the other three hearts to motivate her. At the last minute, she shared hers—one with pointy ears, which is how she drew hearts as a child.
Whew! Now that I’d collected my hearts, it was time for Phase 2.
Experienced Ingrid picked the local tattoo parlor and artist, who was pleasant and professional. The tattoo artist duplicated the pattern on her iPad, stacking the hearts in birth order, then made a few revisions before transferring the pattern onto my forearm (where there are fewer nerve endings).
Her drill was thankfully quiet. And surprisingly, the pain was barely noticeable at first, just some tolerable pin pricks, which quickly grew more intense.
Ingrid, my tattoo coach, told me to relax and breathe. I did. And I’m proud of myself for not flinching, screaming, crying or making a scene. Besides, it was over in a matter of minutes. Seeing my tattoo for the first time was heartwarming—and that same warm, fuzzy feeling has lasted over the millions of times I’ve admired it. It’s the perfect reminder of how special my kids are to me.
I’m glad I waited, even if it took years to figure out. At least I got it right the first (and probably last) time.
2024 Winning Submission for Penned: Non-Fiction