The Tattoo That Wasn't
We had talked about tattoos, my husband and I, in that way that people talk about random subjects when they are getting to know each other; the "have you ever's," and "my favorite_________ is," all the way to the serious ones, like "how many children would you want to have?" We agreed about tattoos that were not against them, but neither of us would ever get one. We just wouldn't; it wasn't who we "were."
Shortly after my son was born, my husband announced that to honor the nine months I carried our child and the pain I went through in childbirth to bring Duncan into the world, he was going to get a small tattoo of a Keith Haring crawling baby on his ankle. And I, in that way that people who are women who happen to be ragingly full of hormones and also sleep deprived can do, completely lost my composure. In fact, I either threatened to leave or may actually have stormed out of the house, keys in hand, and gone for a drive, leaving Jamie with the infant son. There was screaming; there was yelling; there were floods of tears. Because...this was not who we "were." All I could see was that "we" had changed - that Jamie was now a person who got tattoos, and I was not - and that we had no future together. I was now a dumpy, boring, mother with no edge left to her, and my husband was a biker who was going to seek out the kind of woman who DOES get a tattoo; yes, I went to those extremes.
Afterward, when I had calmed down, I explained all this to him. I assured him that I would be fine with his Keith Haring crawling baby tattoo, but I still would not get one. He assured me that he would NOT be tattooing anything if I felt that strongly. Despite all our affirmations, we remain completely untattooed. We do, however, remain married, and we are both just edgy enough for each other.
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