In Which My Pants Go Marching Marching

See the radical protester in camo fatigues, holding back the media with her awesomeness and blinding attire? That would be my kid.
There's more.

My pants were at the March on Washington. As in my soldier girl pants. My former BDUs. (that's Battle Dress Uniform in civilian lingo.) From when I wore combat boots for a living. That's them, there on the right.

The boots in the picture, though, are all hers.

I'm so proud. Not only was my daughter an organizer in the March, she donned her mother's old army pants to do so. There's a certain irony there. A certain je ne sais quoi. Oh wait, yes I do: a certain Fuck You, Georgie, and fuck your war. Here's one former soldier whose ass you didn't get to control.

And whose ass no longer fits in those pants, which is why the Radical Bohemian is in currently in possession of them. Yeah, I really hate that part. That part pretty much pisses me off. Almost enough to make me get up and exercise.

Anyway, my teenager is fortunate enough to be wearing those BDUs to march on Washington, rather than wearing them to march through Fallujah or Baghdad. I've been thinking more than usual about the mothers whose kids are wearing desert fatigues lately.

Good job, baby, you rock.



(Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am posting about the March and my daughter ad nauseaum. My blog, my kid, important event that BushCo. wants to stifle. Whatever.)