So I got a tattoo. A pretty big tattoo... But, there is a reason I got a tattoo.
Everyone seems to know, so it isn't a secret, I had a miscarriage. I was probably 6-7 weeks along and it threw us way off guard. Never did I think that would happen to me, especially since Oliver was a surprise blessing. I find the most annoying part of it all is how taboo the subject of miscarriage is. It just isn't talked about and why not? I'd like to acknowledge the child that I will never get to meet or hold. I, luckily, I do have friends and family that do that. I greatly appreciate that.
Anyways, on to the tattoo. As part of my grieving, I got it. I figured if this poster helped English citizens during WWII to go on with their daily lives, it would help me with the day to day happenings. It was supposed to be a small little dainty thing on my wrist. Well, my tattoo artist told me that is would be a big black ball of gross by three years or so. So, I moved it down and made the giant leap to be a visibly tattooed gal. The red gems are for Bill, the white are me, the yellow/gold are Oliver, and the blue are for what the baby's birthstone would have been. It hurt, but the pain was good for me. I believe it helped me bring closure to the situation.