It's late and I really should be heading to bed, but I was just thinking about something I wanted to jot down. The past couple days I've been focused on getting a tattoo. I wouldn't say obsessed, just focused. Really focused. I've been pondering a tattoo for years, but until recently I hadn't been thinking about it seriously. It just never seemed like a good fit for me before. I mean, it's permanent, on your skin—your wrapping, your shell, your soft and vulnerable exterior.
This permanence has both positive and negative points. Such permanence, to me, is like a scar—I would willfully be scarring my skin. Making it ugly? What could be more beautiful than unscarred skin? And yet, permanence indicates a certain devotion—a certain loyalty and seriousness. What, in my life, am I certain will never change? What am I utterly, unalterably devoted to? Only one thing really: my child. In particular, my child while he is a child. So little, so vulnerable, so dependent on the goodwill and sound judgment of the adults around him, especially me, his mother. As soon as he was born—before he was born—I knew that I would do anything to protect and nurture him. It's such a primitive, almost violent, need to keep my child safe and thriving. I remember rocking him to sleep when he was a baby, looking down at his beautiful, pudgy baby face and realizing that pure love and pure violence—apparent opposites—are sometimes two sides of the same coin. To protect this innocent for whom I felt pure love, I would, without a doubt, destroy anyone or anything that threatened his existence. I remember Jon Stewart, the comedian, saying essentially the same thing about becoming a father—that suddenly you realize you could kill.
In a way I have already scarred my body for my child. I have stretch marks on my belly, breasts, and thighs, and my skin will never recover its elasticity. My understanding is that even ancient skeletons can be identified as mothers due to hairline pelvic fractures acquired during delivery. From what I remember of the intense and frightening pressure as my child traveled through my pelvis, this finding seems entirely plausible. So do I really need another scar on my body to keep the essence of my child and my own motherhood fresh in my mind? I want to consider that question.
Edelweiss, edelweiss, Every morning you greet me. Small and white, Clean and bright, You look happy to meet me. Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, Bloom and grow forever. Edelweiss, edelweiss, Bless my homeland forever.
It's easy for me to imagine the words of this song, written in devotion to a small white flower in the Alps, are for my own son, who, like me, has skin on the far-fair end of the spectrum. Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever. It would probably sound silly to anyone else, but since I've been singing Edelweiss to him since he was a tiny baby, it means an awful lot to me.
Which brings me back to the tattoo. It occurred to me that I would very much like to bear some physical mark of my child—something other than the stretch marks and episiotomy scar I acquired in the early days. I want a record of him as he is now—a very little person—before he thinks I'm annoying or embarrassing, while I'm still the center of his world and we still hold each other and sing unabashedly every night before bed. I know this sweet time is fleeting and I'm trying to soak up every drop while I can.
Given all this, I've decided I want an edelweiss scar. I want to carry those bedtime songs with me on my skin for the rest of my life, just the way I do on the inside where only I can see. I want to be able to look into the mirror and be reminded that this little boy has left a permanent mark on me, a beautiful scar. Edelweiss, edelweiss, bless my homeland forever. I should be so lucky.
