Promise You Won’t Be Mad

No matter how much time passes — Em’s been out of college for eight years — some phone calls never leave a parent’s mind. This one is right up there with the most stress-inducing I’ve had with one of my children. And that’s all on me. Well, in this instance, I guess it’s just as much on her.

Em texted from her college town: Are you busy?

I replied from my kitchen 100 miles away: What’s up?

Em: I made a decision and I need to tell you about it. Promise you won’t be mad.

Me: Call me.

Em: Give me a few. I’m almost back to my apartment.

Me: K.

I sat down. I stood up. I paced. My mind raced. A decision. What decision? My daughter had just begun her sophomore year at college and, only a few weeks earlier, called with a new plan to finance her education. She told me about an appointment with a military recruiter to talk about going that route to help pay for college. I tried not to talk her out of or into anything, but only suggested she get a little further into the semester before considering that option.

Okay. I did not want her to go that route. Of course, I would support her no matter what, but it just didn’t seem to align with her study and career plans in fashion merchandising, a dream she had since junior high. I put myself through college with little help from my parents, and I knew, even though my finances were too tight to help her as much as I’d like, she could do it too.

I sat down again. Then stood up. Felt my pulse. It was rapid. But time seemed to slow as I waited for her call.

Had she actually signed on the dotted line? To which branch of the military had she pledged her life? Could she wait until her apartment lease ended next summer? What did her roommate think? Would she be able to use her military training in her dream career? Could she someday market combat attire? Camouflage: the new black.

I sat down again and looked at my phone. She asked me to promise not to get mad. But I hadn’t agreed. I stood up again. Reminded myself to breathe. Where would she be stationed? Would she ever go back to college?

My phone lit up with Em’s name. “Hey,” I casually answered.

“Are you sitting down?” she asked, sounding as nervous as I felt.

I sat down. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, so I finally did it. I like it, so I’m sorry if you don’t,” she stammered.

“Can you give me a hint?” I asked, thinking about her great uncles who were retired Army, and how they might give me some insight. God, I hope she chose the Army.

“I got a tattoo,” she said rapidly.

Pause. Long, audible silence.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

I laughed. Loud. And happy.

“You’re not mad?” she asked.

“You’re not joining the Army?” I asked.

“What? No,” she said. “I got a tattoo, and don’t worry, you can’t see it.”

“You won’t even show it to your mother?”

“I mean you can see it,” she said, “but my clothes cover it. It’s on my ribs.”

“And what is it?” My heart rate had lowered, but my curiosity was raised.

“It’s what you always said to me before I left the house for school and stuff.”

So many things passed through my mind that I’d said to her through the years while I still had her under my roof. Make good choices. Call me when you get there. Can you take your sister to dance class? Nothing sounded like tattoo material.

“You’d always say, Carpe Diem. That’s what the tattoo is. Carpe Diem in cursive. And so now I’ll always have that as a reminder,” she said.

Carpe Diem. Yes. I did and do say that. A lot. To all my kids. A lot. One of my sons once got a pair of shoes with it artfully painted on the fabric. That made me smile. Carpe Diem over his feet for all the world to see, but only until the canvas faded.

“I thought you’d be mad,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I can’t wait to see it.” And I meant it.

After we hung up, I felt a little proud that my words meant that much. She got a tattoo. Hmm, maybe…

Six years later, I went with Em to a tattoo parlor for her third tattoo and my first. Like her first, mine is something that my mom often told me: Believe.

If Mom were still living, I’d love to tell her about the permanent cursive inscription over my right ankle. Of course, I’d make her promise to not get mad.