The tattoo we never got inked
Maybe we're OK without it
<Welcome to Sandwich Season, where I explore the burdens and blessings of life in the sandwich generation—in the hopes of encouraging others in similar times.>
Hi friends—
Now and then I feel as if I should explain why I write and share these posts. On one hand, Sandwich Season is the story of my grief journey—walking with my family through my mom’s dementia, my parents’ moving, the clearing-out-of-the-family-home, Mom’s death, Dad’s stroke, Leo-the-dog’s death and so on. You can see our list of major life transitions here.
But it’s also a story of hitting middle age and realizing that life has not gone as planned, that I’m not the person I expected to become—and actually celebrating that. I don’t think the plans and hopes I had as a young woman would have been anywhere near as meaningful or interesting as what has actually happened.
One of the areas that certainly did not go as planned, expected or imagined is parenting. Not at all. And yet, I have said many times that I believe our son, Max, has in many ways saved me from myself. The lessons he has taught and continues to teach me have been invaluable, changing the way I view learning, the education system, healthcare, status, family, callings, careers, economics, politics and more.
So why do I share these snippets from my not-so-picture-perfect life?
Because I’m in a place right now where I can see that seasons change, for better and for worse and (usually) for better again—and I want to share that message.
And because I believe that one of the most important things we can do in this life is offer each other hope.
❤️Sarah
The tattoo we never got inked
When I reflect on Max’s childhood, I often feel regret.
As his mom, I wish I had been a bigger person. A wiser person. A calmer person.
I wish I could have seen the fuller picture, taken his hours-long tantrums in stride. I wish I had not worried about what other people thought about his progress—and his lack thereof. I wish I had not fretted about his future, my future, our family’s future.
If I could go back in time, I would slooooow things down. I would cancel the trips and play dates we weren’t ready for. I would worry less about what most children do at what age.
I would take the book What to Expect: The Toddler Years and burn it in our fire pit. Why? Because it did not apply to a 3-year-old boy adopted from tough circumstances half a world away.
I would not waste time trying to help Max “catch up,” and I certainly would worry less about whether he was reaching his developmental and academic benchmarks. And I would give up explaining Max to teachers, relatives, strangers and friends.
I would accept that the course of a human being’s development looks less like this:
And more like this:
For many years, I imagined Max in his adulthood going to therapists and telling them about everything his mom did wrong: How she got frustrated. How she yelled. How sometimes she sat on him.
I imagine him regaling them with stories about how some days, when his dad arrived home from work, his mom stormed out of the house, jumped in the car, slammed the door and peeled out, pebbles shooting out from under the tires, dust rising in her wake as she sped away down the gravel driveway and disappeared.
He wouldn’t have known that my destination was the nearest town, just 5 miles away, where I parked outside the post office underneath a streetlight to read a book, listen to music and just breathe for a little while.
What would the therapists think? What would they say?
I have thought it might be helpful if I could just etch a little tattoo on Max’s forehead. It would say “My mom did her best.”
Because that is the truth. In those years, given what I understood and what I didn’t yet know, given my own upbringing and constitution, and the other adult pressures I faced at the time, I did do my best. Even on those days when the alarm went off, my eyes blinked open, and my first thought was, “Oh, crap, another day,” I did do my best.
—
Max is now an adult, and by some miracle, he appears to love me. After a couple of years of leaving my “I love you’s” hanging in the air between us, he’s returned to responding in kind.
But more than that, he shows it. He calls me when he has free time at school or a break from his job painting apartments. He seems to want to chat. Or, more often, he seems to want to listen to me chat at him and ask him all the mom-questions. How’s it going? Are you having a good day? What are you up to?
He rarely says “no” when Jon and I invite him to come home to our house … or to go to an art museum (my idea of a good time) … or fishing (Jon’s). And when we go fishing, Max, understanding my brand of fussiness, puts the worms on my hook and takes the fish off. (I find fish are like cats. They jump on the lap, or the line, of the person who has the least interest in meeting them.) Max even offers me encouraging words and advice that he has heard from his dad on past outings.
And you know what? Adult Max does see a therapist. You might find this hard to believe, but at least 90 percent of the time he invites me to go along with him.
Does Max remember our travails? Does he remember how many times I devolved into the least effective, least appropriate, least lovable version of myself?
Has he forgotten those moments, those years? Or has he simply accepted them and forgiven me? Is he as impressed with my progress as I am with his?
When I read him this piece earlier this week, I asked him if he remembered the hard times. He thought for a moment before replying, “What year was that?”
“Umm,” I said. “2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013 … .” I wasn’t sure how far I should count, because I could have continued.
“Sounds about right,” Max said, matter-of-factly, the picture of equanimity.
—
I saw a therapist for a while. We met when I was looking for help with Max … help for Max, really … not long after we adopted him and I’d realized I was in deep parenting trouble. After a few sessions, she turned her twinkly blue eyes on me and said in a voice as sweet as a Funfetti cake, “How about we talk about you for a while?”
Clearly she didn’t understand why Max and I were there.
At the same time, I finally felt seen. My whole life I’d been waiting for someone to send me to therapy. My mom had told me on not just a few occasions that I “must need help,” but it was always more of an accusation than a suggested path toward healing.
So thanks to Max, I finally got my help. While Max was at daycare or with a sitter, “his” therapist and I spent sessions talking about me, about my mom and dad, about my family. We even did a little EMDR—eye movement desensitization and reprocessing—therapy. Altogether our time together was healing and helpful for my parenting, for me being a daughter, for my marriage, for my work and really for my whole life.
That was maybe 15 years ago, and ever since then I’ve been processing what I learned from all of it.
Funny thing is, it took me until very recently to wonder: If my mom could have chosen a tattoo to etch on my forehead, what would she have had it say?
Here’s my best guess: “My mom did her best.”
I’m curious … What tattoo would you choose for your people? What might others choose for you? (Other comments welcome too, of course.)
Registration for the June obit workshop is open!
We’ll be writing an obituary—either for you or a loved one—in this two-session workshop June 16 and 23, 2025. More information here:
On a completely different note …
Last week I had the opportunity to share my koto (Japanese zither) hobby at a celebration of Japanese culture in Grand Forks, North Dakota. At least 20 people of all ages and stages tried their hand at playing “Sakura,” the Cherry Blossom song. So much fun! One university student/guitarist from Papua, New Guinea, really took to it and happily riffed away on the koto’s 13 strings.
Curious about the koto? Here’s more info!
The Same Moon drawing is in June
Reminder: Everyone who becomes a paid subscriber by June 16, 2025, will be entered in a drawing to win one of two (or more) copies of my Japan memoir, The Same Moon. (Why this? Why now? It’s a 5-year book-iversary!)
What a universal tattoo you've designed. My sister is on the autism spectrum, so I have personal experience with some of the bonus parenting challenges you've faced. You've obviously done a wonderful job, so your best was the best thing for Max.
This is brilliant, Sarah! This resonates deeply! Some tattoos might read: "I dressed myself", "I'm the messy middle of mom's overfunctioning affliction." The one I plan to ink next week for myself: "Brave, Afraid, Soft, Strong"...the words will surround my sunrise tattoo in a square. They represent the paradox of life, holding the tension of showing up both brave and afraid (most of what I've done I've done afraid, which is brave)....and I'd say I have a soft front and strong back.