Normal Mother’s Day Gifts Are Fine & All, But What I Really Want Is A Tattoo

I’m lucky; I never felt like I lost myself in pregnancy or postpartum the way so many women say they do. My friends, my interests, my quirks, and my personal failings all remained. Some anxieties were magnified, and I had to adjust my priorities, sure, but that was the extent of the great change. But the window of time I get to access that self is extremely narrow these days. And that has been the hardest part of motherhood for me.

Before having my son, I was a hobby girl. As a kid, I crafted, wrote, and read voraciously. I begged to take karate. Finally, when my parents divorced, they caved and enrolled me in horseback riding lessons. That hobby carried me through many low points in life and through all the highs, and I rode all through my school years, in college, and beyond into adulthood.

These days, after I tuck my son into bed at 8, feed myself, and do any necessary chores, I’m usually left with about an hour and a half of time before bed. It’s the only space I get to think my thoughts uninterrupted, to do something I really want to do, and each night I juggle a mess of conflicting desires: Do I work on the book I want to write? Get horizontal on the couch and read an objectively bad romantasy novel? Should I go to the gym or do some YouTube pilates? My nervous system is constantly begging to get lost in something it loves, just for a little while.

That’s why on major holidays, including Mother’s Day, I always ask for a very specific gift. Normal gifts are incredible, don’t get me wrong. My home office is decorated in sticker art and preschool Valentines from my son, whose artwork delights me to no end — all of his characters have massive vacant eyes and even bigger frowns, truly meme-worthy stuff. The flowers and donuts he and my husband always bring me also delight me to no end. And my husband is such a thoughtful gift-giver; I always love what he gets me. But what I want for a gift, more than anything else, is this: another tattoo.

I have six tattoos already. I started getting them at 17 — I know, I know, but my mom says I was a straight-A student who never asked for anything, so she signed for it. Some of them have special meaning, sure, and others probably jumped out at me from the flash sheets because they resonate with something I like: the vintage cowgirl portrait because I rode horses, the daffodils because they’re my son’s birth flower, that sort of thing. Some just mean I once had a few hundred dollars to burn and some free time to sit still in a comfy chair. Both of these things are much harder to come by now.

That said, my tattoos all remind me of where I was in my life when I got them, like bookmarks in all my pivotal chapters. There’s something ceremonial to me about sitting through the buzzing, burning sensation of the needles hitting my skin, like I’m marking the passage of all the good and bad things that have happened since the last time I sat in my artist’s chair.

And all of them make me more confident. They make me love and admire my own body after years of it feeling like an enemy. You see, when I was trying to get pregnant, it took nearly a year. Then I had gestational diabetes. I was injured in a riding fall when my baby was around 8 months old, and had to give it up for fear of hurting myself too badly to care for him. It was too time-consuming to go ride, so I barely ever made it to the barn anyway. I opted instead to follow my martial arts interest into kickboxing classes. My doctor has since vetoed those after learning that I have chronic illnesses affecting my joints, making me vulnerable to serious injuries. That explained a lifetime of wondering why my body didn’t seem to work like everyone else’s. My membership fees now go toward medical bills, and my fitness goals feel harder than ever to attain while battling through bad illness days.

In a phase of my parenting journey where the hobbies I love are simply not available to me, my tattoos remain. I already got them. They will always be this beautiful. They make me feel good and more like myself. And they are mine to keep, unlike so many other things that are fleeting or hard to find time for anymore.

So, while Mother’s Day is typically all about the candles, spa gift cards, and fancy new pajama sets — all of which are great, by the way — pay attention to the things the mom you love really yearns for. What pieces of herself does she have a hard time getting back to now, in all the hustle and bustle of motherhood? Could you give them back to her for just a little while? Realistically, tattoos are not what we should spend our money on right now, but who knows… maybe for Christmas.