My eldest came home from University a couple of weeks ago for his grandmother’s 85th birthday celebrations.
The first thing he did when he saw me was to show me his tattoo. I thought it was a transfer. It is real. I touched it. It doesn’t wash off. My baby is marked for life. He had it for three weeks and I was the last one to know about it. I am not sure why. He discussed getting a tattoo with me when he was home for the Christmas holidays. He had worked out his rationalisations and even though I am not 100% convinced or that I even get it, he is over 21 and it is his body to do as he pleases. I only asked him to think about what he was doing since once it was done, that was it – the tattoo couldn’t be undone.
Maybe he wanted to see my reaction. The last time he went to Glastonbury he came back with a nipple piercing. As soon as he walked in through the door, he lifted up his T-shirt and said, “Look Mum, I got my nipple pierced!” All I could see was a bloody scab forming and a metal bar through his nipple that wasn’t even level. My baby was mutilated!
He doesn’t have the nipple piercing anymore. The tattoo is a different story.
I have photographed the tattoo to document the change on what used to be my perfect (in my eyes) child. Otherwise, how would I really know if it was him if he ever ended up in pieces and needed to be identified?
Apparently a lot of thought has gone into the design of this tattoo and he explained what it meant and how he came up with it. I have been told that this isn’t the last of the tattoos. Even though I can admit that this is an attractive and colourful tattoo, I cannot imagine any more tattoos on my child and how he will end up looking. He is no longer as his father and I created him.
Now his brother is talking about getting a tattoo on his arm.
I think he is just taunting me now.