I’m not a tattoo guy. Never have been. Not that I dislike them, I’ve just always known that if I were to ever get one, there would have to be a really REALLY good reason for it.
Then came the really REALLY good reason.
Very soon after we were told that Simon’s heart stopped, I thought I would need a way to memorialize him, to take him with me. I knew that a tattoo would be a way to do that. I had it designed in my head, I told people of my idea, and I had a good reason. Yes, it would be hard to answer the questions when people asked about the name on my arm, but it would give me a chance to talk about Simon. About my son.
So I went to the tattoo shop and got some ideas sketched out.
I loved it. I scheduled an appointment. I was ready to go.
Then I got home, and Nolan IMMEDIATELY told me to “wash off the numbers NOW, daddy.” And I got worried. Worried that he’d hate it, worried that he’d resent it. Just worried.
Most of all, I worried about what Nolan would think if Simon’s name was on my arm forever, and his wasn’t. What would that do to his little two-year-old brain? The last thing I wanted to do was make Nolan jealous of the little brother he’d never meet.
Then, just a couple of days before my appointment, I changed my mind for good. I couldn’t do the tattoo I had wanted since we heard the news. I couldn’t put Simon’s name on my arm so people would ask me about him and so I could talk about him. I couldn’t do it.
SO I did this instead.
Now I have Simon’s name AND Nolan’s name forever with me. When people ask, I get to talk about my boys. When I am thinking about my boys (as I do incredibly often) I can look down at my arm and I know that they are both with me, everyday everyday, always and always.