Obseen today

When I was in early elementary school, someone wrote "F*** you" on the bathroom wall. I didn't know what it meant, so a friend wrote it down on the top corner of a story I had written so I could just ask my mom. I showed it to her, and she screamed in horror and threw the story away. I'll never forget the scream (I've long forgotten the story).

Which is probably why I seriously underreacted to my son's new "What the . . .?" and my niece supplying the missing "h*ll," and to all subsequent utterings of "What the h*ll?!" at my house. Anyway, it's nowhere near as bad as all the "hee-ing" Miss I. still does.

But if you're going to be an a**, you should do it right, because my kid is starting to read and I don't want him to learn bad grammar. That's why I was de-lighted to see the following exchange on a parking garage wall today:

"Your gay."

"It's 'You're gay,' for 'You are gay;' not 'Your' as in 'Your mother's a wh*re.'"

Yep. That grammarian had the right priorities.

But admit it -- even though you knew you couldn't address the bigotry, you wanted to correct the punctuation.

Miss I's new love

Snap n Style Tamara, how we love you. You have as many shoes as Miss I., and some of them even sparkle. You have a bigger wardrobe than either Miss I or me. And it mixes and matches so delightfully! And your friends look like our friends (we have and love them all, but Linh, who will be arriving for Easter). We spend hours dressing you -- if only there were more time in the day!
We only have one complaint. The brush included with your package gets helplessly entangled with your beautiful, dense curls. Please, f-p, a comb for Tamara, a brush for Elena. That's all we're asking.

Since I've Been Gone

TiVo changed my life.
I had a serious infection and was hospitalized for awhile, which temporarily changed all our lives.
A young person I love inexplicably signed up to fight in Iraq which will permanently change all our lives.
And we lost a baby that was never ours.

Trial balloon

If you're reading, you probably don't know me (except for the perceptive Julie, who just knew by my wordiness that I'd be back). If you don't know me, you might want to start with the archives. Or read the post, where I quit, below.
I'm always amused and bemused when a celebrity comes out of retirement.
I made myself promise that if I posted an "In the End" post, I wouldn't start blogging again.
And for a million reasons, this is the wrong time to start blogging again. For one, I've been quite sick and I'm way behind in my work. For another, all of the reasons I quit blogging remain: I am a real mom, with real children, one of whom can read, both of whom are easily identified (as am I) and I don't want to complicate their lives or divulge any more than they'd be comfortable with.
But then there's this: I've left comments recently that are longer than the posts that provoked them regarding
* an article that suggests that the privileging of genetics is a cultural bias, and that we can and should work past such a privileging
* and the way adoptive families speak, write and think of the moments surrounding placement and the values communicated thusly to first families and children

. . . and we had a bit of sadness this week that I don't have a place for in my life.
So maybe this is the place for me, afterall.

(For anyone who does read, can you tell me how I can find out how people are googling me?)