Pride

So we went to Pride Fest this weekend in an effort to remain part of the community, and because we don't get out much. It was different this year. We got there late (i.e. after 6pm), which meant we had to pay a cover charge of $10. What? You have to pay to be gay?

We're towing the two kids with us, the stroller is blocking the way of the fabulous, glittery gay men trying to get through, and here we are, two very mainstream lesbians with children, entering the pride fest tent and being completely out of place. Why? Because we are 1. Not single lesbians looking for a date; 2. Not young punk rock tatooed lesbians with guitars and killer hair cuts; 3. Not gay men; 4. Not pierced; 5. Have children in tow. 6. There's more.

But we are all the same. And it felt good to be there.

Though I so yearned to chop my hair off and get a tattoo or a piercing of some sort. But let's be realistic, I can't do short hair.

Fiona got her rainbow slushie and was happy. Cyd was loved by everyone, including the slushie lady (who gave her a tiny strawberry slushie sample) because, well, I believe she is magical (Cyd, not the slushie lady).


I watched my peeps, my family, and felt grateful for who we are. Despite our lack of piercings and purple hair, we are happy. And full of love and more.

So we left to go to the splash pad for even more fun. As the transvestite boy/girl in his white bikini (with the essential skirt) splashed around with unabashed glee, I thought, good for you, for being you. For being so full of life and happy. And so confident in your self-defined body. And I was thankful that she could be there with all of us and be safe and free. I don't think it could have happened so gracefully any other time. I wanted to talk to her about what it feels like to be so comfortable in your skin. And the irony of gender.

Really, I wanted to stare. I wanted to see if (s)he had surgery. I wanted to watch him (her!) with her boyfriend. I wanted to understand.

I wanted to know how there could be such joy, which feels much more like sadness.

Blogs

I've become addicted to the so called "mommy blogs". Small things, minivans, suburban musings, uncensored. I feel so connected to them. Every pulse of my life is touched by my family, my children, my partner, my home. My facebook status is usually about the children, or food, or home. I am seldom inspired by work. Though I enjoy parts of it. The people, the ideas, the brain waves, even the numbers. But I could live without the work. I could never live without my people. Many of the bloggers I read are stay at home moms. I am especially addicted to "Enjoying the Small Things", written by a mom with a 3-year-old and a downs baby. That baby sucks me in. Her almond eyes and beautiful face often makes me shed tears. Happy ones.

(Photo by Kelle Hampton, from her blog "Enjoying the Small Things".)
Usually these blogs include photographs of the people involved. Many of these blogger moms are photographers, some professional, others amateur.
We are all connected by this vast and wonderful common ground.