On slowing down and getting inked

Life has a funny way of forcing us to slow down sometimes -- usually when we most believe we can't slow down. We subscribe to this idea that we are the glue holding the universe together, and if we stop to rest, or stop to breathe, or stop to clean the bathroom or read a book or think a thought, then everything will just come crashing right down. I remember this brilliant, fever-induced moment of clarity I had in college. I had a terrible sinus infection, and I couldn't breathe and I couldn't sleep and my face just hurt and I was coughing all the time and I was exhausted and achy -- and I didn't care about anything. I stopped being stressed out about the papers I had to write and the music I had to practice; it was all drowned in a fog of Nyquil-induced apathy (with possibly a hallucination or two thrown in for good measure). I had another such moment a few years later, during my first year of teaching. I had called in sick for the first time, and after two days of lying miserably on my couch, I hauled myself back to work -- despite the fact that I felt worse, not better. I was consumed with guilt over taking any time "off," as if I didn't deserve it as a first-year teacher, as if I had to "earn" it somehow. So I went back, and by lunchtime, I had completely lost my voice. My department head kindly asked what the hell I was doing at school anyway, and I was all, "I have to be here!" And she rolled her eyes and informed me that they'd all managed to keep the school running without me before and they could surely manage for another day or two. I went back to bed for two more days. I still try to remember that little lesson every time I agonize over whether or not I should take a day when I really need to.

Of course, one of the many blessings (and curses, I suppose) of having children is that they force you to learn that kind of lesson. When one of my children is sick, I really don't have a choice about whether or not to stay home with them. Right now, my little man has been battling The Crud for a couple of weeks, and today when I went to pick him up after school, he was significantly miserable -- running a fever (which means I do have to stay home with him tomorrow) and coughing, rivers of snot pouring from his nose. We just started a new semester today and it is definitely not the most convenient time for me to stay home. However, I don't have a choice. I'm not new to this; I had to give up my attachment to "saving up" my sick days when Suzannah was this age, because obviously, my kids come first whether it's convenient or not. I realized early-on that I could either stress out about this (because we have things to cover at school! Because a sub can't teach my kids what they need to know! Because they will talk the whole time and not get anything done!) or I could just roll with it.

As much as I aspire to be a person who just rolls with it, it continues to be a struggle. I am who I am. Still, there is that moment of surrender -- the situation is what it is, and I have to deal with it. I will be home with Isaac tomorrow, and I will lose another sick day, but the world will go on, and even if my students spend the entire day talking and throwing little paper balls at each other and then complain, upon my return, that the sub was "weird" and so they somehow could not work, we'll all be okay in the end. In the meantime, I will rock my baby boy to sleep and hope his fever breaks soon, which really shoves everything else into a far less important background.

In other news: I did it! I got my tattoo! And I love, love, love it. It exceeded all of my expectations, and it's definitely so much more amazing than whatever vague ideas I had when I decided forever ago that I wanted to do this in the first place. I knew it would be good, because I've seen lots of this particular artist's work, but when she finished up on my ankle I was more than a little bit in love with her. (For the record, all credit goes to Suzy at Two Birds Tattoo. What a fantastic place.)



The pain was totally manageable. Everyone said that it would hurt more directly over the ankle bone, and they were right -- but still, not bad at all. Kyanne hung out with me while I got it, and I didn't ever have to frantically grab her hand or anything -- we just chatted for the entire time I was on the table. (This little beauty took a little over an hour-and-a-half.) Today, it feels a little like a bad sunburn, which is actually more unpleasant than the actual process itself. Which is to say, more than worth it. Worth the wait, worth the pain, worth every penny.

Today, one of my students asked if I'd had a good weekend.

"I had a great weekend," I said. "I got a tattoo."

"You're LYING!"

"Nope. I really did!"

He hesitated for a second. "I kind of want to ask where you got it," he said. "But -- I don't know, is that okay? Is it, like -- where -- where is it?"

So I rolled up my pants and showed him (because, yes, I want to show everyone. Because it is awesome). He grinned. "That is tight," he said.

And it is. And I'm maybe just the tiniest bit happy to stay home tomorrow so that I can stare at it as much as I want to.