The year my best friend and I hit the big 4-0, we found ourselves in a tiny town that you could only locate with GPS. Like many small towns these days, it boasted a bar, a convenience store, and a Chinese restaurant. To mark our milestone, we ventured half an hour to the nearest tattoo shop in Ennis, Ireland, nestled somewhere between Feakle and Tulla. We got our noses pierced in a quirky place called Clown Town, and the limited selection made choosing our studs a breeze. Unfortunately, mine got infected by the time I reached Spain just two weeks later, while my friend took over a year to find the perfect replacement for her Cracker Jack stud.
Fast forward a few years, and I found myself juggling twins. After what felt like an eternity in the baby-rearing trenches, I finally emerged into a world where no child was constantly attached to me. With childcare help finally in place, I rediscovered the joys of sleep—it felt like a rebirth.
I was itching to buy new clothes and toss my stretchy pants, but I hadn’t shed the weight from carrying twins. Instead of shopping, I celebrated my freedom with a fresh hairstyle featuring blue and purple extensions, a vacation with my best friend, and another ear piercing.
Then life took a turn as family and friends started falling ill. The reminders to live fully every day resonated with me. I’ve always aimed to avoid regrets, but this wave of illnesses reminded me that I couldn’t take for granted the time to check off items from my bucket list. Truly, there’s no time like the present.
The desire for a tattoo, dormant for a quarter-century, surged back to life. I had always wanted one but feared its permanence. In my twenties, I opted for body piercings instead—those could be removed, right? Now, I had to ensure that the tattoo I chose would hold significance. After browsing countless designs online, one particular tattoo kept calling out to me. I knew I had to make it mine.
The next question was placement. I didn’t want my tattoo hidden away; that would defeat its purpose. I also needed to consider how my body might change over time. Eventually, I found the ideal spot.
As I braced myself for the pain, I sat still for 15 minutes as the permanent ink took shape on my skin. It hurt, but not nearly as much as I had anticipated. More importantly, it felt fulfilling to see my vision come to life. My tattoo—a branch with three birds representing my children—now decorates the inside of my left foot. I find myself admiring and touching it often. I now realize that getting inked in my youth would have led to regret; I hadn’t lived enough to choose something so meaningful, certainly nothing as precious as my children.
My observant 4-year-old spotted my tattoo right away. Unsure of how to explain tattoos, I referred to it as a boo-boo. He looked at me knowingly and said, “Mama, that doesn’t look like a boo-boo. It looks like a tattoo.” After I recovered from laughing and congratulated his cleverness, I explained its significance. He chimed in, “Mommy, that isn’t right. You are missing two birds. You are missing you and Daddy.” It’s hard to argue with the sincere wisdom of a child. Although I had once doubted I’d ever get a tattoo, I now eagerly anticipate my next one.
For more on the journey of parenthood and the joys of life, check out this excellent resource about pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re considering taking that next step in your parenting journey, you can find a wealth of information on at-home insemination kits that can help you along the way. And if you’re interested in learning more about artificial insemination, this post offers great insights.
In summary, my journey to getting my first tattoo was a testament to my growth as a mother. Waiting until I had truly lived and learned allowed me to choose a design that resonates deeply with my life and family.
Keyphrase: tattoo as a mother
Tags: “home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”