Viral: Why I’m Not Piercing My Daughter’s Ears, Unless She Asks

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I received my first tattoo on my 18th birthday.

Viral: Why I’m Not Piercing My Daughter’s Ears, Unless She Asks

I went to the DMV, traded my driver’s permit for a state-issued ID card, and headed to a tattoo parlor in a strip mall — one that did piercings on the side and was nestled between a Chinese restaurant and a Dunkin’ Donuts.

I would like to say I did have some grand plan, or even that I wanted something cool, but no. No, I simply wanted a tattoo because my mother didn’t want me to have one.

I spent several minutes scrolling through flash images because several minutes were quite an adequate amount of time to make a major life decision, right? (For those not, flash is pre-drawn and, generally, stereotypical imagery —cherries, skulls, and cartoon characters.) When a large man, bearded and burly, asked me if I needed help, I was frozen. I told him I wanted a tattoo and pointed to the first image I saw: a black cross with a yellow rose wrapped around it.

He tried to talk me out of it because 1) I wasn’t religious — at all! — and 2) I asked him to place it on the small of my back. You know the spot, about an inch above your butt crack, where your low-rise jeans reside. The spot only others see when you are prancing around in your panties, a two-piece bikini, or… you know. (But before you judge too harshly, this was years before the utterly degrading term “tramp stamp” came to be, so no, I don’t have a tramp stamp, just a stupid lower back tattoo.)

Ever since then, however, I acquired several more modifications. In fact, I have become something of a body modification addict, i.e., I have 14 body piercings and more tattoos than I could count, since one piece melds into the next. But you know what? No matter how many piercings I get or tattoos I acquired, I’m still not getting my daughter’s ears pierced.

Yup, that’s right. The girl with the half-shaven head, wild-colored hair, and overall badass appearance isn’t shoving jewelry through her toddler’s ears.

Before my daughter could sit or crawl, I had numerous family members ask when I would be piercing her ears, or they would express their shock I hadn’t done it yet. “But I thought you would be all about piercing her ears. I mean, with all your piercings and tattoos…” they said.

Many of these same individuals also asked me my parenting policy on tattoos and hair color, which to be clear, are two very different things. While I could have answered snarkily, told them it was none of their goddamn business, or told them I was planning to take my toddler for an Elmo tattoo on her 3rd birthday, I informed them that piercing my daughter’s ears was not on my radar, at all, and it wasn’t something I planned to do.

What seemed like a no-brainer to them — I had modifications so of course my daughter would — is precisely the reason my daughter doesn’t have any. Only she can decide what she wants to do with her body, and that decision comes with age, maturity, and language skills, not motherly intervention.

But it’s just her ears. When I was a kid my mother pierced them in the kitchen with a sewing needle and thread (and in some cases, an ice cube).
While the piercing in question is “just my daughter’s ears,” they are her ears, and hers alone. Piercing my daughter’s ears before she can decide if she wants them pierced would do her no good and actually create potential problems, and one which I see as the biggest problem with infant/toddler piercing: the issue of consent.

You see, all of my own modifications were my own choice. Did I make stupid choices? Yes, but they were my stupid choices. Mine.

If my daughter comes to me at 6 or 8 or even 10 and tells me she wants her ears pierced, I will educate her and then gladly accompany her to the nearest APP (Association of Professional Piercers) shop. But I will not force piercing on her, nor will I decide it for her. I will not permanently modify her for my own vanity because — let’s face it — piercing her ears would be self-serving, since it is neither a cultural consideration (for me) nor medically beneficial, and I will sure not to pierce her ears to save her from some perceived amount of pain that is no worse than a bee sting.

So while small CZ studs may be shiny and cute, they won’t make her happy, at least not right now. That’s what Cheerios, Mickey Mouse, more Mickey Mouse — aka Minnie — Cookie, and Elmo are for.

“Whatcha thinking about, honey?”

I paused for just a minute, weighing the necessity of answering his question fully, versus offering my typical answer which would move the conversation along and keep everything comfortably casual.

“Nothing much, really,” I said.

Which was a lie.

So I added, “Wondering how the kids are doing at the grandparents.”

Which was less of a lie.

The truth is, like most mothers in this world, my brain is always spinning. Always. I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking about the very moment he checked in, but the five minutes before he asked?

That hamster wheel was moving particularly fast.

What was it?

Nothing. Everything. All the things in between…

I need to pick up a new box of contacts before we leave town on Monday. Did I overpay the babysitter last week? My daughter isn’t getting enough vegetables. I missed that writing deadline, again. Is this an anxiety issue? I should check in with my doctor…which reminds me, does my son need any vaccines? I should call the pediatrician anyway, pretty sure the preschool needs updated records. Did I register him for next year? Poor kid needs new clothes for school. He’s grown so much.

CRAP, the clothes. Forgot to switch the wash over to the dryer.

Note to self: Google recipes for baby-friendly veggies. Add to grocery list. Call doctor. Contact editor. Move wash to the dryer. But smell it first. May need rewashing…

Man, I miss my little boy. Can’t wait to pick him up from the grandparents. Hope he’s doing well today.

And that’s exactly what I offered when he asked: the tip of the iceberg.

Not because I can’t tell him these things — I absolutely can. He’s my best friend. He can take it. I didn’t tell him because, well…

This is mom brain. All the time. And apparently there’s even a name for it: the mental load.

It’s why so many of us feel so tired, despite the fact that “all we do” is stay at home. And for those of us who balance working outside the home too? My goodness, the idea is exhausting to me.

You’ve seen it happen. You see a mom friend, ask her how she’s doing, and she answers, “Tired.”

It’s not always sleep deprivation. Sometimes it is, but there’s something else, isn’t there? Something deeper. My husband comes home from work every day, and I want to lighten his load. So I ask how his day was because I care. And because I love him.

And always in the back of my mind, my hamster wheel is spinning.

Mothers, you get this, right?

Because if we don’t remember to switch the laundry over, who will? And if we don’t bother with the vegetables, well, the baby just won’t get any. And doctor’s appointments, prescription refills, vacation packing lists…

All on the invisible checklist inside our brain.

This is the mental load we all carry.

And I’m not saying it’s bad or that we need to do something to fix it. I don’t even know if we can.

But sometimes it’s just enough to acknowledge that, hey, this exists. This is a thing. There’s a reason we get tired even when we feel like nothing is getting done.

Because everything that hasn’t been done and everything that needs to be done is playing on loop in our heads — constantly.

Mamas, you are incredible. You are freaking machines. You are that fancy, expensive glue that’s $20 a bottle because it holds heavy stuff together while staying completely invisible.

But maybe we don’t have to be. Maybe there is something we can do.

How about the next time a spouse, or friend, or family member asks, “What’s on your mind?” you tell them. Lighten the load. Even if just for a minute.

And if they look at you like you fell out of the Bonkers Tree and hit every branch on the way down, just reach out to another mama. Because mamas understand.

The burden might be invisible, but it is pretty damn heavy. So let’s be open and honest, and talk to each other.

Let us share the load.