Pride brunch toast, Berkeley, CA.

Not a Bloody Mary to be seen. This here is Pride, the parents-of-young-children version. Coffee for the grown-ups, hot chocolate with marshmallows (it’s Pride, after all!) for the younger set. Can you make out the weathered rainbow flag down there as our table cloth?

This year, for the first time in over 25 years of Prides, (that number sounds appalling but it is indeed accurate), I didn’t march, rabble-rouse, party, boogie, or even stroll. The beloved had a bum ankle from a backfired dance move demo she’d delivered to one of her theater kids (JC Superstar: not for wimps!), and our own kids were so-so about the Parade (“It’s fun but it’s too hot and noisy,” said the girlie, pretty much nailing the characterization).

We had long planned a Post-Pride-Potluck-Picnic-Party chez nous, and this year we leaned heavily upon it for our mellowed-out dose of queer (family) love.  A baker’s dozen friends, old and new, each with a kid or two in tow, came to chillax in the back yard, swing on the swing, bounce on the trampoline, and wag the jumbo “Go Marriage Equality” foam hand one of them brought back from Pride (what will they think up next?).

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