That was then and this is now

I got my ears pierced Friday night. I’m probably the last holdout on the planet to have avoided doing so, and you know it’s not fear of needles, right? My girl desperately wanted hers done when she was 10, and I finally reluctantly relented when she was 12. I later let her persuade me take her to get her belly button pierced at age 14, but forbade her to get a tongue stud. I noticed the flash of silver in her mouth over the Thanksgiving holiday when she was 15. Well, it was done, and her theory of forgiveness over permission worked again. Honestly, she learned that theory from me, so what could I say? She found out from natural consequences that tongue piercing is rampant with difficulties; exactly like the doctor and the dentist I took her to beforehand told her. That bit of jewelry is gone, but the navel ring is still intact, although I doubt that she’ll ever forget throwing up and passing out when she had it done. See, child rearing is easy if you just relax and let nature do the teaching. Of course, it took years for my headstrong little Aries to transfer that lesson over to other areas of her life, but patience is the other quality essential in a parent. Don’t worry if you have none and want children. You will either grow to the job or go insane, or maybe a bit of both.

So, you ask, and I assume you do, why did I wait so long to get my ears pierced? Evidently both my parents had to be dead first for one thing. The fact that I defied them in every other area of my life does not seem the least bit illogical to me. We all have symbols, and for some reason my Mother associated piercing with “gypsies” and the requisite implication was of licentious and even criminal behavior. I had never seen a gypsy in my life, but I do remember Mother being horrified by a babe in arms with tiny gold hoops and soft curly hair. I made the assumption from the look on my Mom’s face that these were the nomadic people of whom she had warned me. My sister scurried close behind her to keep from being stolen, but I rather like the idea of living with people I imagined danced around a campfire at night, so I stood staring bold as brass. Later I found it slightly confusing when my Mom dressed my sister and I in what she said were gypsy costumes for Halloween. I asked her about the earrings of course, but only my sister was trusted with Mom’s jewelry or allowed to wear her hair hanging loose. Mother must have seen the longing glance I gave that curly haired baby and her laughing mother. I had to content myself with wicked bright red lipstick, and an outfit that looked quite a bit more pilgrim than prostitute.

Dad agreed with Mom on any area of morality as long as she lived, and then to honor her, held onto the symbols until his own death. Like him, I remained symbolically obedient, if not actually embracing any of their Baptist, Republican, conservative philosophy. Hell, they were the ones who sent me away to get an education. Did they not realize someone would teach me logic? I know what you’re thinking about my logic about now, but after a while my opinion on piercing just snowballed. I dug my heels in about jewelry in general and specifically the kind that required punching needles into my flesh to wear. My daughter compensated by getting an additional 5 holes in her ears, one on her eyebrow, and one through her right nostril, and for about three years went about sporting a whole arsenal of urban tribal hardware. If she had any other areas of her anatomy done, I thankfully never knew. At age 25 she has matured and parted ways with all but one set of holes for earrings and the naval hoop.

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, and one of them was holding onto my virgin earlobes for reasons that were lost in the dawn of my relationship with my mother. As I have gone through my changes, I realize that no matter how cool a Mom my children say I am, history has a way of repeating itself in Mother-Daughter relationships. I’ve held my tongue, but my girl always knew what my opinion was, just like I did with my Mom. My Mother left an onus on my heart, but there is plenty of time for me to remove any burden I have placed thoughtlessly on my girl. When she meets me at Heathrow in April she’s going to know that I have let go any vestige of the silent battles we fought when she was younger. This is my promise to her, and I have sealed it with little silver hoops. Even if no one else understands what it means, she will see and know. Perhaps we shall both dress up like gypsies and paint the town red when I get there.