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My son sent a meme the other day that read, “My son got a face tattoo today. Go ahead and bottle feed. It doesn’t matter.” I’ve never felt more seen. Because, in fact, my child had just arrived home from two weeks in Europe with a face tattoo. A delicately placed triangle directly on his right high cheekbone (he gets his high cheekbones from me), it sits where one might expect the ubiquitous teardrop tattoo known to criminals across the country.
He called to tell me about his trip, a whirlwind of parties, nightclubs and fabulous meals. Lisbon! Barcelona! Ibiza! Surrounded by 45 of his closest friends and serving as a groomsman in the most romantic wedding I’ve ever seen, held in a castle in Spain, my child had what I can only relatively call the time of his life. AT A CASTLE. IN SPAIN!
He sent and posted photos of amazing meals, glorious architecture, artwork, dazzling sunsets, boating excursions, extravagant cocktails and raging parties that started at 1 a.m. Yes, my son knows how to party.
Now, let me clarify, my “child” is not really a child. I call him that for various reasons (see face tattoo above). Jack is 32. He’s single, never married, left home 10 years ago and has a relatively solid career (we’ll get to that later).
His life choices have always been something of a mystery to me. At a young age, he was not one to follow but always led — often, dragging others behind him, kicking and screaming. When he was five, my mother assured me his strong-willed nature meant he’d be something like a senator someday. “He’s a born leader,” she said. “He marches to the beat of his own drum,” she said. The problem was, there’s a road between being five years old and becoming a senator or running a major takeover firm.
He was a trendsetter. An early influencer. The first in his school to ask for blonde tips (à la Tony Hawk). Jack loved studded leather bracelets and ripped jeans. Did I mention he was in the third grade? He was constantly telling others what to do and how to do it. The older kids in the neighborhood found him annoying; the younger ones idolized him.
When he started asking for tattoos in middle school, his father and I drew the line. No tattoos until he turned 18. We weren’t a tattoo family. And while I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of ever, we smugly bought ourselves some time.
Of course, any child knows how to win over a parent: take something meaningful to them and pretend it’s meaningful to you. Hum their favorite song. Quote their favorite poem. Or, say, get a tattoo of their favorite Napa Valley vineyard on their arm.
The child in question was 16. He was so determined to get a tattoo he would go to any lengths to ensure he wasn’t disowned when he came home with it.
SCENE: EXT. BACKYARD — EVENING.
I am in the backyard after a long and grueling day in the office, planning to putter in my struggling garden. Who keeps forgetting plants need water? My marriage at the time is hanging on by a thin dill stem, and so it seems, is my herb garden.
I’m tired. Discouraged. I navigate through grass and weeds to pick tomatoes and basil for a salad. I know Jack and his sister will be home from lacrosse soon. Their father is in the house somewhere, already drinking, I’m sure.
I am determined to romanticize my evening.
When Jack comes down the stairs to greet me, I instantly know something is off. My kids don’t search me out when they arrive home. More often, they slink to their rooms until called for dinner.
He looks nervous. Pensive. Scared. This can’t be good. “I have something to show you, Mom,” he begins. “And I don’t want you to freak out.” I instantly start to freak out.
Then, like ripping off a Band-Aid, he lifts his shirt to reveal … you guessed it. A tattoo.
“Before you get mad,” he pleads, “just look. It says ToKalon. Get it? Your favorite vineyard. The one you use in your passwords (not anymore). The painting in the dining room (donated to Goodwill). I did it for you.” He says all this in the salesman-like way he has (he gets that from his father).
What followed included: Tears (mine). Yelling (mine and his father’s). Finger-pointing (at his father, because, why not). But, as they say, the damage was done. A friend with a tattoo gun earned a quick fifty bucks, and my son sported a tattoo that made it sound like he enjoyed smoking alone.
Fast forward to today. “ToKalon” has been joined by countless, and I mean COUNTLESS, other tattoos of varying degrees and meanings all across his body.
He has acquired tattoos in Japan, Mexico, Thailand, Bali, New York, Washington, DC, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Miami, Annapolis, Denver, Vail, and now, Ibiza.
But over the years, as the tattoos spread — arms, legs, back, fingers — we always agreed on one rule: No tattoos above the neck. We agreed that there is nothing worthy of putting on your neck or face. Never. EVER!
His third night in Ibiza was the final hurrah before the wedding party disbanded. As most mothers know, it doesn’t matter how old your children are; you never stop holding your breath when they are far from home. Add a foreign country, wild parties and drinking, and I can confidently say I barely slept the two weeks he was there.
Anti-American sentiments were high at that time (and probably still are). Stories of travelers missing, kidnapped, drugged, nightclub shootings, fires, floods! That Jack and his friends had survived with only one ER visit (for the bride — thankfully, just dehydrated) was a miracle!
Hallelujah, I thought to myself as I climbed into bed that night, knowing they had just gotten to the club (it was 2 a.m. for them) and likely wouldn’t sleep before flying home.
The next morning, I checked Jack’s Instagram for proof of life. There were videos: flashing lights, DJs, half-clothed dancers. Honestly, I was a little envious. At his age, I was a stay-at-home mom with two kids under 10 and a husband constantly on business trips. My first trip to Europe involved toddlers, not techno.
His last post before heading to the airport was a sunrise walk in the Ibiza surf, sailboats bobbing quietly in the harbor. He survived. He didn’t get mugged. He didn’t go to jail. He wasn’t kidnapped.
He did, however, get a face tattoo. He doesn’t remember getting it. Or paying for it. Or who gave it to him. He remembers packing his bags. Heading to the airport. Looking in the bathroom mirror — and there it was.
SCENE: INT. — JACK IN THE AIRPORT.
“Hey, Mom. I have something to tell you. I don’t want you to freak out.”
Not sure that career as a senator is going to pan out after all.
Do your kids have a lot of tattoos? How do you feel about them? Let us know in the comments below.
Sunny Eckerle
Follow Article Topics: Family
