Ink

So, I kind of get the whole tattoo thing.

There are parents who think that getting a tattoo is the worst things their kids can do. It’s a low-rent stain that cannot be undone, an expensive mistake, a tacky end to their child’s innocence. And in some ways it is. It’s the newest sign of rebellion, like long hair in the sixties, except way more permanent. But for the generations coming up, it’s completely normal, acceptable, and hardly a judging offense.

With our emphasis on acceptance of each other, the lines have blurred or even disappeared on some of the standards of the past. Not all of that is good, but lots of things that used to cause our foremothers to purse their lips disapprovingly are really small matters in the grand scheme of things, and it’s good to take on a more accepting attitude.

Two of my kids have considered tattoos. Kelsey has one and talks of getting more, and Phillip has declared his intention to get inked in the not-too-distant future. These were not impulsive decisions. They researched tattoo studios and considered carefully where on their bodies the adornment would be located. They also spent a lot of time debating designs, and I have to say their choices reflect their personalities and things and relationships that are important to them.

While these were their choices, they did talk to me about them. I encouraged them to pick something that would really be personal to them, since they would be wearing it for a long time, and to have it installed in a place that could easily be covered by clothing. While perfectly acceptable for my kids’ peer group, tattoos are not considered mainstream by most employers, and we would hate for them to miss out on a job due to a conspicuous dragon. We definitely want our kids to be employable.

A little rebellion is good for the soul and helps us grow up. Even in my youth I was pretty serious and conservative, and I didn’t rebel much as a kid. I wish I had taken advantage of my youth to dress outrageously or to do funky things with my hair. The only thing I remember my mother and me arguing about was my emerging feminism. She didn’t understand why I thought women should be referred to as women, not girls (“Someday you’re going to WISH someone would call you a girl!”—still hasn’t happened). I maintained that language should be inclusive, there should be equality in the workplace and in the church, and women who are assaulted aren’t somehow asking for it. My mom thought I was an idiot. All these years later, feminists are still fighting the same battles, and I’m still a feminist, so maybe it wasn’t really rebellion. Maybe it was growing up.

I’ve thought about getting a tattoo myself—I figured it was the one way to make tats seem uncool to my kids—but I’m not a fan of paying for pain. And at this point in life, I’m not sure I could come up with a single meaningful symbol. Life keeps changing me in amazing ways. I’m not willing to write anything in ink just yet. 

Tests and Papers

In school, skills and learning are measured in essentially two ways: papers and tests. People have different views on how they prefer to be evaluated, but the thing about tests is that once they are done, they are done. You can second guess yourself, of course, or perhaps arrange to take the test again, but there is no way to edit history. What you have written, you have written. It is a reflection of a moment in time.

Papers are a work in progress until the last second. When I was in college it didn’t occur to me that I could type a paper early and just leave it in my notebook until it was due.  I would always work on papers until the absolute last minute, obsessing over the exact words that would best communicate—and get me the A.

If parenting were a test, or a series of tests, few parents would consider themselves to be straight-A parents, and their kids would certainly concur. We all botch it more times than we care to admit, and even when we do well, it often feels more like pure luck than good prep work or an advanced skill level. In the long run, parenting is pretty much pass/fail. And fortunately most of us pass. We release our children into the world and stand back as they begin to function as adults.

Although there are certainly tests involved in raising children, parenting is more like writing. It’s ongoing, rather than a finite event. We can make decisions about what will be included, and when and how. Over time we know that there should be enough action to keep it interesting, but the right punctuation is important, too: places where you separate, or take a breath, or ask a question. And while you can’t change what has been written, it’s possible to reflect on what was and to learn from it, adding layers of understanding to the story.

Three of my kids are legally adults (and the other two THINK they are adults), but I still feel my work is not quite done. The editor in me wants to continue to go back, to add or subtract, to give them what they need to make them better, stronger, happier, more prepared.

Like a paper, parenting is never really “done,” even after it is turned in. My dad still offers advice and encouragement three decades after I moved out of his house, and I still hear my mother’s voice nearly thirty years after her death. I’ll remember her counsel (or worse, repeat it to my kids) and I will realize that this is all part of the same continuing story.

Parenting is hard work, and there are days when I think I would like to be done. But most days I’m glad I’m not. My role has evolved, and while in some ways it has diminished, in other ways it has never been more important. Although the framework of the kids’ stories is already established, there is still much that is unwritten. While it is their job to write it, the editor in me is sure to want to offer suggestions.