My son sent a meme the other day that read, “My son got a face tattoo today. Go ahead and bottle feed. It doesn’t matter.” I’ve never felt more seen. Because, in fact, my child had just arrived home from two weeks in Europe with a face tattoo. A delicately placed triangle directly on his right high cheekbone (he gets his high cheekbones from me), it sits where one might expect the ubiquitous teardrop tattoo known to criminals across the country.
He called to tell me about his trip, a whirlwind of parties, nightclubs and fabulous meals. Lisbon! Barcelona! Ibiza! Surrounded by 45 of his closest friends and serving as a groomsman in the most romantic wedding I’ve ever seen, held in a castle in Spain, my child had what I can only relatively call the time of his life. AT A CASTLE. IN SPAIN!
He sent and posted photos of amazing meals, glorious architecture, artwork, dazzling sunsets, boating excursions, extravagant cocktails and raging parties that started at 1 a.m. Yes, my son knows how to party.
Now, let me clarify, my “child” is not really a child. I call him that for various reasons (see face tattoo above). Jack is 32. He’s single, never married, left home 10 years ago and has a relatively solid career (we’ll get to that later).
His life choices have always been something of a mystery to me. At a young age, he was not one to follow but always led — often, dragging others behind him, kicking and screaming. When he was five, my mother assured me his strong-willed nature meant he’d be something like a senator someday. “He’s a born leader,” she said. “He marches to the beat of his own drum,” she said. The problem was, there’s a road between being five years old and becoming a senator or running a major takeover firm.
He was a trendsetter. An early influencer. The first in his school to ask for blonde tips (à la Tony Hawk). Jack loved studded leather bracelets and ripped jeans. Did I mention he was in the third grade? He was constantly telling others what to do and how to do it. The older kids in the neighborhood found him annoying; the younger ones idolized him.
When he started asking for tattoos in middle school, his father and I drew the line. No tattoos until he turned 18. We weren’t a tattoo family. And while I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of ever, we smugly bought ourselves some time.
Of course, any child knows how to win over a parent: take something meaningful to them and pretend it’s meaningful to you. Hum their favorite song. Quote their favorite poem. Or, say, get a tattoo of their favorite Napa Valley vineyard on their arm.
The child in question was 16. He was so determined to get a tattoo he would go to any lengths to ensure he wasn’t disowned when he came home with it.
SCENE: EXT. BACKYARD — EVENING.
I am in the backyard after a long and grueling day in the office, planning to putter in my struggling garden. Who keeps forgetting plants need water? My marriage at the time is hanging on by a thin dill stem, and so it seems, is my herb garden.