Um? This one time? At band camp? I wrote this thing? And the people of Boston want to call the DSS?
I wish I did not care. I wish I could shrug off the trolls, the haters, the creepers.
My skin is too thin for this writing stuff. And yet I keep plugging away at it. Is this the definition of thick-headed, or persistence? I no longer know.
This time, they cut me to the quick. Can you smell the blood from where you are? Oof. I am down for the count.
I know I’m not supposed to read the comments. I know anything about nudity seems to whip Bostonians into a Puritanical feeding frenzy. I know the things I am supposed to know—with my mind—but my heart and my gut get scared.
Question my sanity, sure, but don’t question my mothering. Or my hair.
Please go read the article if 1) you’re feeling sassy and protective and 2) you’ve been naked in front of your offspring.
If everyone wears Haz Mat Couture for bathtime at your house, though? Forget I mentioned it. Boston Globe what? La la la la la la la la la…
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