That time we got tattoos together (or, on getting married young)

Apparently I am that lady that now blogs bi-annually. Whatever. I started this blog when I had two less children, one less job (two less if you count chilbirth educator). And frankly, though I wouldn't have believed at the time, significantly less stress. Or different stress? Hard to tell.

But sometimes, writing wells up inside of me and I have to tell a story. This is the story of how my husband and I got tattoos together.

When I was 18, I wanted to get a tattoo. But I couldn't decide what I wanted. I wanted just the right thing, being that it would be etched upon my body for the duration of my life. And, if I am being completely and entirely honest, because I am a needle-phobe, I wasn't in any hurry to decide since tattoo- getting definitely involves needles.

So I thought, and I thought and I came up with nothing that I wanted that permanently. I went off to college for a year, got engaged, my mom died, I got married. I thought and thought, but still nothing. Not just the right thing.

In July of 2002 I got pregnant. And everyone knows that you aren't supposed to get tattoos when you are pregnant. And well, after I was pregnant, I made milk. And you really aren't supposed to get tattoos while you are nursing, either. And I went on this being-with-child-making-milk-for-a-child circle. Over and over, without a break. Until March of 2015.

(Pause) I will let you marvel at the fact that I gestated/lactated continiously for the better part of 13 years. Women's bodies are amazing, aren't they?

I had thought about a tattoo in the interim, but only pheripherally. But I really started to think about it. Make a plan. It was going to happen, eventually. About a year ago, I decided! I was going to get aspen leaves. My mom loved quaking aspens, Colorado, my love of our autumn drives. It was just right. Joe had decided on one as well- a bear. But then, you know, those things got put off.

Fast forward to this Spring. Joe and I started to discuss plans for our 15th anniversary in June. Big party! Vow renewal! Then as it got closer, life got lifey-er. Super lifey. But we decided it was time to get those tattoos. But the tattoos that we had imagined for ourselves were more intricate (and expensive) then we could do at the same time. When we were discussing it one night, I suggested that it might be meaningful to get a version of the other person's tattoo.  And then we actually made an appointment.

So we went in a couple days after our anniversary. He went first. In true understated Joe fashion, he watched the tattoo artist place an aspen leaf tattoo on his forearm with stoic interest.  It was beautiful, both his reaction because it was so Joe, as well as the tattoo.

Then it was my turn. I hopped in the chair, put on my bravest face and he started. Fairly shortly into it, I felt very hot. Super sweaty and kind of clammy at the same time. I started to go a little dark around the edges of my vision. I used my birth breathing. Joe asked the tattoo artist if anyone had ever passed out on him and he said no. I was determined to not be the first one. The funny thing about phobias, I suppose, is that mind over matter is super tricky. You can tell yourself that the tattoo needle digging into your arm doesn't actually bother you, but your body reacts in ways that tell you otherwise.

But I held it together, despite the sopping wet sweat and the tunnel vision. I was so annoyed at myself. I mean, it hurt, but I have had two babies unmedicated. I have endured a 40+ hour induction, I have recovered from two c-sections. I can do pain. The turning point was when I told Joe, "I am just trying to get over it!" And he pointed out that I was trying to get over it by thinking about it.

So he got out his phone and we started looking at bad tattoos on the internet. Which made me laugh and made me feel significantly better (besides the guy etching the ink into my arm). And then it was over.

And that was how, after almost half my lifetime of trying to decide what tattoo to get, I ended up getting my husband's tattoo before I got my own. I later reflected on the significance of this. Because we got married when we were 20-year-old babies, all of our adult lives have been caught up in each other.

I learned how to be adult me alongside Joe figuring out how to be adult him. This happened at the same time as figuring out together how to be "us". Which, not coincidentally, happened simulataneously with the both of us figuring out how to be Issy/ Isaac/ Liam/ Adelle/ George's parents.I am fundamentally me, with all of the virtues and vices that are a part of me. But undoubtably, how I function and who I am as a person has been largely shaped because of who I am as Joe's wife.

And I love it.

I know that in larger society, people pity me for not "finding myself" before I got married and settled down. But I am just so grateful that I get to do this life with him by my side. He challenges me, builds me up, dreams with me, plans with me and then we execute the plan together.  As we have grown as "us" we have been grown individually.

We aren't perfect, we are still human. We occasionally shout (well, I do), we hurt each other's feelings, we nurse brusied egos and feel misunderstood.  But when it all boils down to it, I am still his and he is still mine and I am glad to have that reminder etched into my skin for the rest of my days.

He choose an aspen leaf with the silohoutte of a mountain in it.

Mama bear