When my best friend and I hit the big 4-0, we found ourselves in a charming little town that was only accessible via GPS. Despite its small size, it boasted a bar, a convenience store, and a Chinese restaurant. To celebrate our milestone, we embarked on a half-hour journey to the nearest tattoo shop in Ennis, Ireland, nestled between Feakle and Tulla. We ended up getting our noses pierced at a quirky place called Clown Town. With limited choices, we settled for some basic studs. Unfortunately, I managed to get mine infected just two weeks later during a trip to Spain, while my friend spent over a year searching for the perfect replacement for her initial Cracker Jack-style ring.
Fast forward a few years. I became a mother of twins and, after what felt like an eternity, I finally emerged from the exhausting phase of baby care. No longer was I constantly nursing, tripping over toys, or sharing my bed with little ones. With regular childcare support, I began to reclaim my freedom, rediscovering the joy of sleep, which felt almost like a rebirth.
With this newfound freedom, I longed to revamp my wardrobe and toss out my stretchy pants. However, the baby weight lingered, so instead of shopping, I found other ways to celebrate: I added vibrant blue and purple extensions to my hair, planned a vacation with my best friend, and even got another piercing in my ear.
Then, life took an unexpected turn when several family members and friends fell ill. Their struggles served as a reminder to live each day fully. I’ve always aimed to avoid regrets, but these experiences underscored the reality that I couldn’t postpone my bucket list indefinitely. The time to act was now.
A long-buried desire from my 20s resurfaced. I had always wanted a tattoo but hesitated due to its permanence. Instead, I opted for body piercings, knowing they could be removed. But now, I was determined to choose a tattoo that truly resonated with me. After browsing countless designs online, one particular image captured my heart. I knew it was the right choice.
The next challenge was deciding where to place it. I wanted my tattoo visible, as hiding it seemed to defeat the purpose. I also aimed to avoid a spot that would distort the design as I aged. After much thought, I found the perfect location.
I steeled myself for the pain. For 15 minutes, I endured the sensation as the tattoo artist transformed my skin into art. It hurt, but not as much as I had anticipated. More importantly, I felt a sense of accomplishment as my vision came to life.
Now etched on the inside of my left foot is a branch with three birds, symbolizing my children. I often look at it, and I’m grateful I waited until now to get a tattoo. I hadn’t lived enough in my youth to choose something of such significance—nothing could compare to my children.
My 4-year-old son quickly noticed my new tattoo and, unsure how to describe it, I called it a “boo-boo.” He looked puzzled and replied, “Mama, that doesn’t look like a boo-boo. It looks like a tattoo.” After a good laugh, I explained its meaning, and he innocently pointed out, “Mommy, you’re missing two birds. You and Daddy.” Once again, the wisdom of a child left me speechless. I had once doubted I would ever get a tattoo, but now I eagerly anticipate my next one.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Jenna Morgan shares her journey of waiting until motherhood to get her first tattoo. After a significant life change and a series of family health scares, she embraced the idea of tattooing as a meaningful expression of her love for her children. With humor and wisdom, she recounts her experiences and the joy of finally marking her skin with a permanent reminder of her family.