When I was in grade 6 my friend, Hannah, and I had “special” pens that we would use to “tattoo” ourselves and other kids. These pens were probably just regular pens. I think they were gel pens. I think we had four of them. The plastic was transparent and the same colour as the ink. We thought they were the cats' meow, the bees' knees, and somebody's pajamas.
We would charge kids a nickel or whatever they had to trade, and kids had stuff to trade. They really loved it and we enjoyed doing it. We would draw tiny bugs and other small things with our coloured pens. Usually we had to draw them wherever we thought parents' eyes would not see them. This was a time of, “Don't drag the family name through the mud!” “Children should be obedient and quiet.” “Tattoos are for bikers who use drugs.” Hannah and I both knew that we would never be allowed to actually get tattoos. Hannah's mom saw one of our drawings on her and it did not go well for us. We got a very stern cease and desist warning from our parents that we couldn't ignore. I knew that my mother would kill me if I continued and so, I put it out of my mind.
Fast forward to the year I turned 50. That's when I realized that I was a grown-ass, independent woman and my mother was dead. She was just a voice in my head now and I decided that I didn't need to listen to her anymore. The family rules and world paradigm were not mine. I was free to choose how I would live my life and so, I designed my first tattoo, and we were off to the races. I found a fantastic artist – Lydia K. That was in Halifax, Nova Scotia. She's since moved to Vancouver Island, BC. Within five months I had five tattoos. Today I have nine, if I counted right. Each one of them has a special meaning for me. The first tattoo was about my life and contained lots of symbolic images. I'm pretty proud of that one.
Today, however, I want to introduce you to another one of my tattoos. I wear it proudly on the right side of my chest. It came about when I was going through a bit of a rough patch – freshly single after 15 years of marriage (I thought marriage was forever), and four angry, confused, and upset kids dependent on me. It was pretty brutal and I was feeling desperately lonely, overwhelmed, and unsupported when I started thinking about Calvin and Hobbes.
For those of you who don't know, it's a comic strip created by cartoonist Bill Watterson, a very talented man. Calvin is a little boy with a wicked imagination and an indomitable spirit. He has a stuffed tiger he calls Hobbes, who comes to life, maybe for real or maybe just in Calvin's imagination – you decide. The two of them have some wonderful adventures together. I realized that I never needed to feel alone again because, like Calvin had Hobbes, I had me, and I love me, even when it feels like I have no one else around. I love me, even when I feel that I'm a screw up. I love me, even when I wish that I didn't have to go on.
Whenever I feel stressed or sad, I go into the washroom, look in the mirror at my tattoo, take a deep breath, and know that I am loved. I am enough. I am worthy. I am never alone. Nine years later, just putting my hand over the tattoo, closing my eyes, and taking a deep breath, will calm me and make me feel loved. It's like a giant hug from someone very special who loves me unconditionally.
I sent my oldest son, Allen, a picture of the tattoo and he went out and got one too. Allen reminds me of Calvin. They've got the same hair for one thing and that wicked imagination for another. So not only does it have special meaning for me alone, but it ties me to my son, who is pretty special. I love you Calvin... I mean, Allen.
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