“I’m getting a tattoo,” I told my 4-year-old son, Reid, as I helped him into his car seat during preschool pickup last fall.
His face lit up. “Are you getting my name?”
I kissed his cheek, closed his car door and tried to collect my thoughts. I should have seen this question coming.
I only have one other tattoo on my left forearm. It says “Evan Frances” in beautiful, cursive script.
When my daughter, Evan, was 1, I was scrolling on Instagram when I spotted a black-and-white photo of a man’s upper arm that featured four female names in delicate handwriting. I saved the image thinking that one day I would use it as inspiration for my own tattoo.
Unfortunately, that time eventually came.
For my 40th birthday, my husband, Michael, took me to get my first tattoo to commemorate Evan, who had died one year earlier. She had been born with a rare mitochondrial disease. We were told her life expectancy would likely be short and understood we were operating on borrowed time.
Evan died in 2022, 10 days before Mother’s Day and just three months shy of her fourth birthday.
Reid is now only a handful of months older than my daughter was when she died. Not a second goes by when I don’t hear Evan in songs and wind chimes and see her in books, ladybugs and full moons. But mostly I feel her presence whenever Reid says or asks something surprisingly poignant. His preschool teacher recently shared that they were learning about pollination in class when he raised his hand and announced that his sister was like a bee that couldn’t pollinate anymore, so she died.
I’m not sure where he got that. He was only 3 months old when Evan died, but he has come to know her through our daily routines and conversations. We sing Evan’s songs, read her books and we say good night to her.
As part of our evening ritual, I blow a kiss to a framed photo of Evan on our mantel that sits next to a wooden urn with her ashes. I kiss the urn’s two edges which represent, to me, Evan’s perfect, juicy cheeks. On top sit her glittered, hot pink, cat-eye sunglasses, sparkling almost as much as her eyes in the photo.
I glanced at Reid in the rearview mirror and thought, “What should I tell him about my new tattoo?” Because I have no intention of ever getting one with his name on it.
Everyone has a different philosophy about tattoos and their meanings. The man whose arm I had seen on Instagram all those years earlier was, as it turned out, Matt Damon, who had added his four daughters’ names to his upper arm. I only realized this when I read the tiny caption on the image I had saved years before.
But I never would have gotten a tattoo if I didn’t feel a need to keep Evan close. How does one explain that to a 4-year-old? Reid keeps me on my toes with his unexpectedly insightful questions, but it’s often a challenge to find the right words.
“Well, buddy,” I finally said, glancing at him again in the mirror, “I’m lucky because I get to see you every day, and I get to spend so much time with you. But I don’t get to do that with Evan. That’s why I got Evan’s name last time. It’s how I can spend time with her. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“So, I’m actually getting Evan’s sunglasses on my other arm,” I said.
“Her pink ones?”
“Yes.”
He smiled, then said, “Theo and Monty didn’t take a nap at school today. I told them you need to take a nap. But they didn’t listen.”
Crisis averted. For the moment, anyway. I had been considering a second tattoo for two years when an invite arrived in my inbox for a fashion event with a tattoo artist named Benny Shields. I’m a lifestyle writer, so I’m often invited to unique showcases.
My husband and I looked up Benny’s Instagram account and discovered he was the artist behind Jeremy Allen White’s various tattoos, both personal and for Carmy in “The Bear.” I signed up.
Three days later, there I was — at a newly opened coffee shop and wine bar in east Los Angeles — getting Evan’s signature shades tattooed on my right forearm opposite her name.
“Do you mind me asking what the sunglasses represent?” Benny asked, as he set up near a case of fresh pastries.
After I explained, he said, “We’ve got to get this right, knowing how much it means.”
When I showed him a picture of Evan, his eyes widened. “I’ve seen her before,” he said. “I think maybe your husband and I follow each other on Instagram.”
My heart swelled. That’s how memorable my little girl is.
With that, Benny began the process — shaving my arm, transferring and positioning the stencil. Then came the first poke.
“How does that feel?” he asked.
I tried not to wince. “I mean, I’ve given birth twice. How bad can this be?”
But the truth is that’s my barometer for most things these days. That paired with the I.V.F. process I went through for my son and the fact that my daughter was poked and prodded by doctors on a regular basis out of medical necessity.
Evan went through so much more than many adults do in their lifetimes. So, in the grand scheme, what’s a needle other than a reminder that we can survive hard things?
Over the next hour, Benny took his time, stopping to consider each fine line. Meanwhile, we talked about life and the fact that no one gets out unscathed.
The act of recreating Evan’s signature shades was more than a tattoo appointment; it was a therapy session. With each poke of the needle, I couldn’t help but think that tattoos truly are a metaphor for learning to feel the pain and to endure it.
As the minutes passed and the poking continued, I eventually became numb to the feeling. The burning sensation remained from start to finish, but just as with emotional trauma, my body learned to brace itself, anticipate the hurt and keep going.
Now, every time I look at my beautiful, joyful tattoo, I’m reminded of that. And of my beautiful, joyful little girl who brings happiness to anyone lucky enough to spot a photo of her on Instagram. Which is why I was both surprised and appreciative when a newer friend — who had never met Evan — was admiring my tattoo.
“Does it hurt to look at it?” she asked.
I welcomed the opportunity to explain. “I love thinking about Evan,” I said, “and I long for any excuse to say her name.”
The beauty of a tattoo is more than what meets the eye. It’s both a meaningful reminder and potential conversation starter. Talking about Evan keeps her spirit alive, and eyeing her etched, oversized sunglasses reminds me of everything she taught me about shifting perspective and seeing life through a different lens.
She had every reason to cry, but she smiled between tough moments. So when I look at my tattoo, I think of her angelic face clad in her cheerful shades, and I smile — knowing I wouldn’t be the mother I am today without having fought so hard for her.
When I picked Reid up from school later that day, I showed him my new ink. “What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s too big,” Reid said. “Daddy could have done it smaller for you,” he added, likely thinking of the cutesy Paw Patrol and Bluey temporary tattoos he often gets in birthday party goody bags.
Later that night, Reid crawled into my bed. With Michael out of town, I figured, “Why not?” These precious moments are fleeting, which I know all too well.
Reid planted himself on my pillow and squared his face, so that we were nose to nose. “Mommy?” he said. “I have a question.”
This is usually when he’ll ask something random, like, “Did you know my friend JoJo doesn’t like bananas anymore?”
Already half asleep, I said, “Yes, Reid?”
“Will you take me to the guy who did your tattoo?”
“Buddy, you’re just a kid,” I said. “You can’t get a tattoo. You can have temporary tattoos. If you still want one when you’re 18, then yes, I’ll take you.”
“Yeah, when I’m an adult, I want you to take me to the guy who did your tattoo.”
“OK, buddy, sure,” I said. “When you’re an adult.”
“I want to get Evan’s name,” he said. “And her sunglasses.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, because I didn’t get to spend enough time with Evan either.”
