Why I Do Not Have a Tattoo

Lots of in-house fun today. Painting the basement, going to yoga class covered in paint (we got up very early, but not early enough to eat, paint AND wash), and then picking out flooring for the nearly-done rumpus room down there.

Afterwards, we treated ourselves (we were out grownups only) to a nice cup of coffee. And at Peets there were displays of tableware. Since having children, my priorities have changed, somewhat, and one of the things I put behind me mostly is a terrible craving for dinnerware. Plates, tea services, matching linens. . . I usually have it under control. I do this by reflecting on the fact that a) my children still break many things, and b) dinner time doesn't often resemble the fantasy portrayed in a Pottery Barn catalog and c) there is Time Enough for Such Things.

But some things can trigger a flare-up. Peets had a nice set of tea/coffee things, with sort of a Polish folk design on them. Luscious colors -- deep blues and reds -- enough to trigger a horrible desire to just run out and buy a nice tea set -- a red pot! Matching cups! Maybe. . . saucers.

When I came to, I was clutching a sticky bun and remembering that my children are, at this very moment, in exile upstairs until-it-is-clean-and-I'm-not-kidding. The other realization that hit me, thinking about carpet and paint and deep, enticing colors of tea pots, was that I'm not that permanently attached to many things.

The broad outlines are the same -- I still tend towards comfortable, sporty, outdoor clothing -- but the particulars change. When I spied a sweet young thing wearing a pair of Monkey Boots, black leggings, a wee black skirt, a wool coat, and Serious Librarian glasses, I saw me in graduate school. I don't think it's a look I can still pull off.

I bet I wouldn't even like the same tea pots any more, assuming that I had the kind of life which allowed me to indulge every lustful whim towards ceramic and cloth. I don't know if I still like my wedding china, because I'm afraid to take it out. So while I'm still recognizably the same person, the most external expressions of me change.

Bringing me to why I don't have a tattoo. There isn't anything I can commit to long enough to want it inked under my skin. I know some people have their children's names tattooed on them, and I think it's fine, for them. Me? I'm way too aware of what skin does as it ages. Plus, I also don't carry pictures of my children. There's no question at all that they are central to my life -- in essence, their names are burned into me, inside. I don't need them anywhere else to hold them in my heart.

I'm also aware of what time does most cruelly to memories in some cases. When my grandmother died, she was alone in the world, even though she was surrounded by her children. Her mind had left them behind in another iteration of herself. She was well-cared for, but she was profoundly alone. If this happens to me someday, having names on my ankle or bicep isn't going to remind me of where I misplaced those relationships.

And when you have four children, three of whom have extremely long names, and one of whom has many names, where do you find the body real estate? (Pause for my spouse to mention my rear end.)

I plan to stay pretty much the same me. I plan to keep loving but not indulging in table thingies. I plan to keep knitting, even though the thought of One More Sleeve right now is killing me. I'll get there, even if I'm not willing to permanently ink a pair of circular needles on me.