For much of my adult life, I thought I was afraid of needles. But after I began spending more time in doctors’ offices, I’ve come to realize that needles aren’t so bad. Between 10 COVID vaccinations, nearly five gallons of blood donations and plenty of other pokes, I’ve had my share of holes drilled in me.
Still, my medical perforations pale in comparison with what happened to my left bicep last November when I got my first artistic tattoo. (My first tattoo of any kind consists of three black dots on my abdomen that served as guides for my recent prostate-cancer radiation treatment, but that’s another story.)
The best thing about the Frog and Toad tattoo on my arm is that when I got it, our daughter added the very same tat to her growing collection of body art. Sharing a skin picture with Sophie is just one way in which I have bonded with her over the years.
When Sophie was young, we read to her, and “Frog and Toad” were among our favorite characters. Their gentle thoughtful friendship is inspirational. We also loved “Daisy Comes Home,” but I suspect that that book’s breathtaking illustrations might be a little much for even a highly skilled tattoo artist.
We also bonded over other media. On many nights, Sophie drifted off to sleep listening to the beautiful Native American songs on “Under the Green Corn Moon.” Dozens of times I gave Sophie her last bottle of the day while we watched and listened to “Fantasia.” (I can see Mickey Mouse, as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, on my other arm . . .) And I would be embarrassed to say how many times we watched “Little Shop of Horrors” together, rewinding and rewatching the Steve Martin dentist scene over and over again. Real Father of the Year stuff.
As Sophie got older, athletics became the primary venue for our bonding, and many sports memories remain vivid despite the passage of time.
The first sport Sophie played was softball, and I’ll never forget her last game. She got a hit in her last at bat, and in her last inning in the field, she made all three of her team’s outs, including an unassisted double play.
In Sophie’s senior year in high school, in the quarterfinals of the Division III basketball tournament, she helped her team win by scoring Hopkinton’s only third-quarter points with a bomb from downtown. I can’t go into the gym without looking at the spot from which Sophie made that shot.
Athletics allowed Sophie and me to bond over her on-field exploits, but our off-field experiences may have been even richer. Her two years playing AAU basketball involved road trips all over New England, including a bunch of overnighters. When she played in Saco, Maine, we stayed at Old Orchard Beach, and a favorite memory is sitting on a curb, eating haggis, while we watched a pipe and drum band perform at the OOB Scottish festival.
Some of our best bonding may have happened when Sophie and I were spectators at athletic events. Every year from kindergarten through 12th grade, I took her to an Ohio State football game. We got to campus early, watched the band rehearse and stayed until the final whistle. Twice we stormed the field after victories over Michigan. On the Ohio State trip during Sophie’s senior year in high school, she got her first college acceptance by e-mail, and I was at her side when she got it.
That brings me to my new tattoo. I had long thought that 2019 would be my last Buckeye football game with Sophie. But after she moved to Columbus last summer, I decided to revive the tradition. The day before we went to the football game, we got our Frog and Toad tattoos, and getting inked the Friday before an Ohio State game brought us full circle. Sophie got her first tattoo back in high school, when I took her to a tattoo parlor on campus, the day before we attended a Buckeye game.
Seven years ago, I took Sophie to the tattoo parlor. This time, she made all the arrangements, and she took me. This time, we got an image from a book that Sophie had read with Nancy Jo and me. Sophie’s first tattoo was a cherry blossom, which will always remind me that when Nancy Jo and I got married in the Washington, D.C. suburbs, the city’s cherry blossoms were in bloom. Now that’s some magic ink.