Parental responsibilities, emotional facts and tattoos

This is something like a letter to Graham, though I'd never ask or even want him to read it. Maybe it's just a second-person maternal systrophe. Thinking of it that way makes me less uncomfortable. The idea of expecting Graham to read any account of the feelings I have in relation to him makes me feel boring and guilty for being boring, not unlike the feeling I have every morning after spending five minutes telling Aron my dreams of the night before. But here's my letter-thing to Graham:  Being your mother means that socks terrify me; every time I put them on your feet I'm afraid they're going to break the bones of one of your delicate little toes, although your "little" toes actually seem disproportionately large. And actually, being your mother means that the list of things that frighten seems to grow a bit each day; so far, the list includes:  water, nail clippers, sheets, pillows, cold breezes, bibs, Velcro on bibs, loud noises, dog fur, public places, unwashed hands, long nails, sneezes, coughs, Christmas trees, swear words, sarcasm, and stuffed animals. Being your mother means that when I go to the bathroom, you’re kind of invited. And being your mother probably means that I'm not allowed to get a tattoo.

I want a tattoo of the dressed-up girl exercising her biceps. 

The image is from a book published in 1883 called Sound Bodies for Our Boys and Girls, written by William Blaikie, who also authored the book How to Get Strong, and How to Stay So. Sound Bodies includes sections such as "The Value of a Good Chest" and "Firm, Not Hard, Muscles." Each chapter concludes with a series of questions; here's one of them: "What kind of back-arms has any boy or girl who cannot dip at least three times?" And here's the pertinent chapter part about dipping:  "Not one boy in five, not one girl in twenty-five, can do this [dipping] once. Yet whoever cannot do it at least three times has rather weak back-arms." The book is fairly hilarious, and I love the picture of the girl lifting the dumbbell and holding her muscle. Maybe she was Rosie the Riveter before she started officially riveting. She looks so tough and delicate at the same time. Every time I see her I smile. I guess smiling at the image amounts to little more than laughing at the past--how very postmodern of me. But enough of the explanation. I always feel somewhat defensive when people ask about the tattoos I have now, which are both inspired by Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning." For a while I considered it the greatest poem ever written, by which I really meant the greatest poem I've ever read; now I'm way less convinced of its greatness, so instead of mentioning the poem, maybe I ought to explain my tattoos this way:  I wanted them, I got them. I want the weight-lifting girl in a skirt, I probably won't get her.

Because I'm a mom. Not that moms aren't allowed to get tattoos. The La Leche League even approves—or at least doesn't disapprove—of tattoos, and that's saying something, because the La Leche League doesn't even approve of swaddling (which they say is intended to trick a baby into believing he's being held).

A new tattoo might do some tricking too. It might trick at least a few people into thinking I'm cool. It might distract people from my wide mom-thighs for a little minute. It might be like listening to music while folding laundry or drinking a beer while writing an essay. If it does or is like any of these things, it'd be nice to have. But if it makes me appear irresponsible, it's unlikely that I'll get the tattoo. And given our poverty, it wouldn't be the mere appearance of irresponsibility:  it'd be a fact. Along with all those other things motherhood makes me fear, I fear the absence of money, even though it presents no choking hazard.