Tattoos

Owen came home from his first semester away at college (far away--the Pacific NW--not exactly around the corner from Baton Rouge) with a tattoo--and not an easily hidden tramp stamp, which I suppose would look a bit strange on a guy anyway. But it wasn't one of those simple bands around his bicep or a subtle fleur-de-lis or a little, I dunno, knight or vegetable or something. This "tat" (I'm learning the lingo) takes up his entire outer upper arm. It features a giant multi-colored Mexican Day-of-the-Dead sugar skull that consists entirely of flowers. This actually very impressive piece of graphic art is surrounded by Springsteen lyrics--and Springsteen lyrics, of course, can redeem almost anything.

Nevertheless, it's a tattoo. A permanent tattoo. A very large, brightly-colored, permanent tattoo that is more than a wee bit disturbing on first glance.

Owen loves it. It makes him happy. I'm happy when he's happy.

But.

Strangely, the "buts" largely evaporated once I saw the tattoo (as opposed to hearing it described in triumphant phone calls). Not that I was converted by the graphic artistry, not even by the Springsteen lyrics. No, the key fact was that the sugar skull sits atop a largely foreign arm.

During the period when Owen expressed his desire for a tattoo (this went on for years) and then, once he turned 18 and no longer needed our permission, his plans for a tattoo, I hated the idea. I hated the idea of my son's beautiful skin marred by injected ink. But then he came home sporting the tattoo, and I looked at that arm, that man's arm, and--I didn't really know it.

I used to know every inch of Owen. I birthed, bathed, and band-aided him. I syringed snot out of his nostrils, wiped poop off his butt, put drops in his eyes, taught him how to clean his penis, spread lotion on his chicken pox, shampooed his hair, and cut his nails (and yes, sometimes his fingers). I tickled his feet and squeezed his hand. I caught his wriggling body when he jumped into the pool. I clutched his legs as he rode on my shoulders. I gripped his back as he mastered his first two-wheeler. I held his head as he vomited into the toilet. I snuggled with him in bed.

And then, when he was about 10, that was that. Touching was no longer allowed. Oh, there's the occasional grateful or begrudging hug, the required kiss, the barely tolerated hair-ruffling and collar-straightening. You find yourself a little bit, just a guilty teeny bit, glad, when he's sick, because then you get to touch him.

And his body becomes a stranger to you. And you make do with other babies, other toddlers, other little guys. You nuzzle those little feet and cradle those diapered bottoms and offer a lap to those chubby legs. And they're lovely. But they're not his. He's gone. There's this man there. This amazing man. With a striking tattoo.