I never wanted a tattoo. The thought of a needle pushing ink into my skin made me squeamish. But when my three kids, all in their 20s, got matching shamrocks etched on their bodies to bond over their Irish heritage, I felt jealous.
Even though I fed them bratwurst and sauerkraut, dressed them in lederhosen and dirndls, and danced the polka with them in the living room, they identified with their father’s lineage over mine.
So, despite my contempt for tattoos, I made a bet with them. If they could find a German symbol we could all agree on — no pretzels or beer steins — I would get it permanently drawn into my skin with them. After much bantering and many silly suggestions, we decided to have the German national flower, a cornflower, inked as their Mother’s Day gift to me.
Over the next few months, I convinced myself it’d be no big deal. I birthed three children. How much could a tattoo hurt?
I searched the internet for images of cornflower tattoos looking for the perfect one to display my motherly connection to my children. I settled on a dainty two-inch flower curved around my ankle. Each time I looked at it, I fell more in love with the thought of displaying this image for the world to see.
All my kids had multiple tattoos — and I recognized each as a creative expression of individualism and ownership over their bodies. I felt empowered being linked to my children on a level that was significant to them.
On that second Sunday in May, my boys were in Denver and Philadelphia, while my daughter and I were in a suburb of Chicago, so we each went to our respective tattoo parlors to celebrate our shared roots from a distance.
My daughter made the arrangements for us since she had experience. She chose the same studio where she and her brothers got the shamrock tat. She met with the artist a week earlier to consult on the design.
The tattoo artist presented a sketch on a piece of tissue paper based on the details my daughter gave him so we “could try it on” like a temporary tattoo on plastic.
“No, that’s way too big,” I blurted out, looking at the six-inch design he created, while at the same time feeling embarrassed for attracting attention in my white skort with small flowers. Everyone else in the shop was clad in black.
The tattoo artist regarded me with disdain.
“Mom, if you make it too small, the design will all blend together and it won’t look good in a few years,” my daughter explained. She showed me one of her smaller, older tattoos that looked very undefined.
“But I wanted a pretty little flower that curves around my ankle,” I said, pulling up the picture I saved on my phone.
“If you do it there, it’s going to be really painful going over the bones,” she warned. “I knew if I told you earlier, you’d chicken out.”
I was apprehensive but agreed. We altered my design, adding three hearts at the bottom of the stem — for the three loves of my life.
My daughter went first. I sat near her head as she laid on what looked like a massage table, peppering her with questions.
“Does it hurt?” “How are you staying relaxed?” “Do you try to meditate?” She asked me to sit by the windows in the waiting area so she could focus.
The rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun and the medicinal scent of the green soap used to disinfect the machines was making me nauseous. I didn’t have a good feeling about all this.
An hour later, he finished inking the 6-inch cornflower on the side of my daughter’s calf and needed a smoke break before starting mine.
“Maybe we should go home and think this through a little more,” I said to my daughter as we watched the tattoo artist puff away in the parking lot.
“You can do this. I’m here with you,” she said, reassuring me.
“Ready?” he asked me, walking back in.
I tried to take deep breaths but my heart was racing so fast. I told my daughter to sit next to me so I could squeeze her hand.
“Don’t move,” he said, which only made me paranoid that my leg would convulse under the pain.
I forced my mind inward, breathing in time with the constant hum and movement on my skin. I thought about my kids going through the same process, and then about my mom, my grandmother and great aunts, who raised me in their German traditions. Memories of meals consisting of spaetzle, dumplings, schnitzel and sauerbraten flooded my mind.
I thought about the origin of my mother’s maiden name, Schulze, and her mother’s family name, Schug, and I replayed the stories the matriarchs told of my great-grandparents coming to America in the 1880s.
I vividly recalled the delicately hand-carved wooden pyramid that my grandmother displayed at Christmas — I was always mesmerized as the heat from the little red candles on the base turned the graceful wooden rotor blades at the top, making the layers of nativity scenes spin.
“What do you think?” he asked, standing up to admire his work.
We were done already?
My daughter handed me a mirror so I could see the back of my calf. It was beautiful. My cornflower. My connection to my kids. My symbol of honor to my ancestors.
Two months later, we all met in Wisconsin at our family cabin on the lake. We took pictures of our matching tattoos — all from the same idea, but unique based on our personalities.
My bond with my children will always be strong. But now, living in different states, the bond is literally a piece of me forever. Something I can look at when I miss them, and that’s the best Mother’s Day gift I could ever receive.