Most people who know me - or who have been unfortunate enough to have seen me in a tank top - know that I have tattoos. Three, to be exact: a dove on my upper left arm, cherries on my upper right arm and the infamous Homer Simpson on my back left shoulder.

My parents hate the tattoos. They think I'm going through some sort of early-onset midlife crisis. And they aren't the only ones who hate them. I get a lot of odd looks and glares - primarily when I'm with my kids. I can see the glarers' tiny brains going into judgmental overdrive: "Tattoos?! You're obviously too wild and crazy to care for children! You probably tie them to your Harley - without helmets!" But I love my tattoos. They make me feel strong. They were the product of much thought and preparation. They are tiny works of art that I endured pain to get. In that regard, they are a lot like my children: tiny works of art that I suffered through pain (*lots* of pain) to get. 

So, if you see a parent with tattoos, don't judge. The tats don't have any bearing on our ability to love our kids or care for them properly. Case in point: I *always* remember their helmets when I tie them to my Harley.