27 Nov A Mark Of Motherhood: Fertility, Letting Go and the Tattoo That Says It All
Kate Wattus seeks a permanent symbol of her fertility.
Waiting for the Needle: A Calm Exterior, Shaky Hands
As I try to anticipate the itchy sting of the buzzing needle, I sit with my legs outstretched and read my library book, a picture of calm repose. ‘Oh yeah,’ I’d say to anyone who asked, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly, ‘I hang out in these places all the time.’ It’s only my sweating palms that threaten to blow my cover. And the fact that I’ve read the same line in my book three times and am still unsure about what it says. I carefully replace the bookmark between the pages and return the book to my bag. For now, I think I’ll people-watch.
Tattoo Studios: The Perfect Stage for People-Watching
If you’re going to people-watch, the waiting area of a tattoo studio is a superb venue. Most of the customers are predictably male and in their twenties. One young guy is discussing with his chosen artist the plan for his next tattoo – a pair of grizzlies fighting to the death on his upper thigh: “You know, bravery, no fear of death”. The tattooist smiles. The young guy can’t be any more than 18.
The odd surprise walks in too. An attractive young woman wearing a collared shirt and business skirt is one of them. The piercer greets her with familiarity and takes her into his workspace behind the velvet curtain. As he does so, I notice the numerous tattoos covering his forearms. I swallow hard and cross my arms. Oh yeah. I hang out in these places all the time.
Inside the Studio: Clean, Professional — and Nothing Like Last Time
I return my attention to the waiting room, its walls filled with answers to the dumb questions the punters must ask repeatedly. “Yes, it does hurt!” screams one artistic masterpiece in answer to, I’m guessing, one of the most FAQs. “Drunks will not be tattooed,” states another; although, in hindsight, a swig of something fermented might be therapeutic in a place like this.
I’m amazed at how spotlessly clean and professional this place is. The studio (and I use that term loosely) I’d visited with my husband a few years back was quite a different story. A skinheaded Neanderthal with tattoos all over his neck, a cigarette in his mouth and a tattooist’s gun in his hand was the star attraction at that establishment. And the decor was less about velvet curtains and more about a poster depicting the lord of darkness himself having relations with a saucy young lass. I’d had nightmares about that place for weeks after.
Thinking of Running? The Temptation to Bolt
As I move across to pick up one of the many albums of artwork, I catch sight of the street outside. If I were to hightail it now, the guys in here would be none the wiser who the ‘Kate for 2.30’ was. I’d just be another no-show. The truth is, I’ve been looking forward to this tattoo since I got my first one in 2004. The sea turtle that had made its home just above my tailbone had long needed a companion. This one’s going on the back of my neck.
Meeting Nick: The Tattooist With Opinions
At last Nick, my tattooist for the afternoon, bounds out from behind his curtain. It was time. “Kate! What did you have in mind for today?” he asks in a rather enthusiastic and energetic manner. “I have it here,” I mumble, foraging in my wallet and sounding more anxious than I cared to. Taking one look at my concentric creation, he takes a step back, puts his head in his hands and says, “Oh no, not this one! Of all the triskelia, it had to be this one.”
Bemused and tentative, I watch Nick to see when he is going to recover and remove his head from his hands. Several moments later, he composes himself enough to explain the complexity of the pattern and, before reverting back to the foetal position, manages to suggest that this sign had occasionally been linked to ‘the dark side’.
Glancing down at my maternity bra and thongs, I decide that this probably won’t prove to be a big issue. And if I ever manage to get myself caught in a broken elevator with a Satanist, it might prove a useful icebreaker. “Okay,” puffs a hassled Nick, “leave it with me and I’ll be back in a minute.” He dashes away before I can say anything more. Unsure of what to do next, I sit down and read the same line in my book a few more times. (Oh yeah. I hang out in these places all the time.)
Fertility, Breastfeeding and Letting Go
The next time Nick calls my name, it’s to tell me to come into his workspace. I shuffle in and feel a pang in my stomach. “Why the triskele?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested. “Fertility. Mother Earth. I’m giving up breastfeeding today,” I say. He prepares his tools and nods knowingly, as though it’s a story he’s heard a hundred times. “How long?” he asks without looking up. “Seventeen months,” I say wistfully. “Uh-huh.”
“This is a present to myself,” I say, “so that I won’t feel such a loss.” “Uh-huh,” he says again. “My wife fed twins for ages, too.” This family dude has it all over Neanderthal guy. We swap polite stories about our kids, and then get down to business. “Here we go. Let me know when you need a break.”
The First Sting: Pain, Calm and Meaning
When the needle first touches your skin it’s a hard feeling to describe. It’s as though your body can’t quite make sense of what is happening and so the sensation is all jumping nerves and goose bumps. The slight discomfort soon gives way to a buzzing calm.
I sit for the best part of an hour, reflecting on what this tattoo symbolises: the joy I’ve experienced at being a fertile woman. Body reclamation after motherhood. The cycle of life. The movement of time. My reverie is interrupted by Nick’s voice: “Your hotplates are nearly done”.
Hotplates of Fertility: A Mark to Carry Forever
Hotplates!
I guess they do look a bit like hotplates. But these are fertility hotplates. And they’re going to be my fertility hotplates until the day I shuffle off this mortal coil.
Illustration by Little Circus Design
