Lula hanging out with a sheep at the Woodstock Farm Animal Sanctuary.

So apparently this new Vegan Is Love: Having Heart and Taking Action children’s book by Ruby Roth, a follow-up to her That’s Why We Don’t Eat Animals, is pushing omnivores to the brink. The book prompted guests on the Today show (in a segment entitled “Extreme Parenting”) to say that its frank info and images—about where meat really comes from, and about how zoos and aquariums also promote animal cruelty—are not suitable for children because they’re just too damn scary. (“If it’s too scary to talk about, the reality of where those pieces of meat come from, then it’s certainly too scary to eat,” Roth shot back beautifully.) And it inspired a blog post on Jezebel that worried aloud about all sorts issues, referring both to Matt Lauer on Today and to Roth’s vegan stepdaughter, Akira:

But, as Matt Lauer mentioned later in the segment, when you send the message “vegan is love,” do you also send the message that “eating meat is hate”? And how does that affect a child’s budding relationships? Surely no one could argue that you shouldn’t educate a kid and teach compassion, even when it comes to food choices. But what about tolerance and acceptance of the choices of others? Even if your moral compass is very tightly wound, and you believe that meat is murder, should you let a kid decide for herself? Is little Akira existing in a world where she believes her teacher and classmates are cruel killers?

Sorry, Jezebel (of which I’m usually a fan), but since when does teaching a philosophy or set of morals automatically denounce those with other points of view? The best parallel I can think of here is that of religion—something everyone in our society, from atheist to bible beater, seems to grasp on some level. So: If someone raises their child Jewish, is it simultaneously teaching that those of Christian or Muslim or Hindu faiths are fools to be avoided? Is a Bat Mitzvah just a recipe for disaster when it comes to the idea of that child’s “budding relationships”?

And as far as letting a kid decide for herself about whether to eat animals or not, that just doesn’t make much sense to me. Veganism is just another philosophy, a set of strongly-held beliefs. Just as an adherent of one religion is most likely not going to raise their child to be another, why would a vegan buy and prepare meat for his or her kid, rather than educating that kid about animal cruelty and the meat industry? Jezebel makes the point that “Surely no one could argue that you shouldn’t educate a kid and teach compassion, even when it comes to food choices.” So how else to do it if not with the hard-to-swallow truth?

Now I’ve NOT read the book yet, so I can’t comment specifically about the images that folks are calling scary. And while I don’t think that 3 1/2 (the age of my Lula) is a good time to be introducing pictures of tortured animals, I do think it’s a fine time to wade into the topic organically. Last month, we took a family trip upstate to a couple of animal sanctuaries, where we snuggled with pigs, fed cows, hugged sheep and adored chickens. Lula was in heaven. Now, whenever the idea of eating bacon, beef, lamb or poultry comes up, I’ll have an experience to remind her of, and which I can use for some explaining.

Will I simultaneously be teaching her that her friends and extended family members are evil? It certainly won’t be my intent. And if and when she asks about it, I’ll take the same tack I’ll take whenever she decides to ask about why she has two mommies or can’t wear nail polish or watch some crappy Nickelodeon show like her friends do: That everybody’s different. And different people do things different ways.

A recent nighttime nursing session.

Attention! Attention! The mommy-blogosphere is going crazy right now! Time magazine has just released a new issue with a cover image that is, according to many, “desperate,” “exploitative,” and “appalling”: a young, blond mom in skinny jeans, standing tall, breastfeeding her 3-year-old son as he stands before her on a chair. The accompanying coverline, “Are You Mom Enough?” leads into this little teaser: “Why attachment parenting drives some moms to extremes—and how Dr. Bill Sears became their guru.”

Is it sensationalistic? Certainly. Is it shocking? In this culture, definitely. But, while having your kid stand on a chair to get to your breast might be a bit of an extreme, I beg to differ that the mere act of breastfeeding a 3-year-old is. I made the decision, when Lula turned 2 years old, to let her self-wean. Part of this was Dr. Sears-influenced, but most of it was instinct. It was obvious to me: Lula likes nursing. It calms her. I enjoy that bonding time with her. Why should we rush to end it just because 98% of the people around me think we should? I still, in spite of myself, feel self-conscious about it—more and more so as Lula inches her way toward 4—and I’ve got it limited to occasional evenings and mornings, in private, when she yearns to feel closest and safest. I don’t have a problem with that. Why should anyone else?

That Time magazine—along with countless other publications—delights in using tales of “extended” breastfeeding to fuel the never-ending mommy wars is not surprising. But that other women continue to equate breastfeeding a toddler (or even an infant) to something inappropriate and sexual never ceases to amaze me.

Javier with his wares.

So we’re just back from a week in Isla Mujeres, Mexico—our idyllic, early-spring respite for the third year in a row now. And though the level of relaxation I achieved there has been pretty much deleted ever since the speed-demon/tailgating taxi ride home from JFK, I do have plenty of magical moments to carry around in my head. Like floating on my back in the bath-warm sea, sipping a Dos Equis on the beach at sunset, lying in a hammock to stare up at the stars, building sandcastles with Lula, and watching her charge out of the water giggling only to fling herself into the sand. Oh—and when my wife Kiki explained to our favorite beach vendor, Javier, where Lula came from.

That last one is particularly rich, as it has all the elements of a good memory: beauty, humor, love, pride. Javier is from an indigenous Mayan community in the state of Chiapas, and, like many of his friends and family, spends his days walking the length of the beaches in the intense Isla Mujeres sun to sell vibrantly beaded jewelry, hair ornaments, key chains and purses, plus hand-woven bags, bracelets and headbands, all made by relatives back home. The beadwork is gorgeous, and we always buy a few items. And, while we’re at it, Kiki chats up the seller in her awesome Mexico-learned Spanish, and then the fun part begins.

“Did you adopt her?” Javier asked Kiki, looking at Lula, who sat on our beach bed with me inspecting his beaded baubles. His tone was sweet and shy and curious.

“No,” Kiki said, smiling and putting her hand on my shoulder. “She was pregnant and gave birth to her. But she didn’t have sex with a man.”

Javier looked confused, like we were teasing him, and then asked, “You can do that?” Kiki explained it all, as Lula and I debated which key chain was better for her great aunt, an owl or a ladybug. And so then came the lesbian-pregnancy lesson—how I got pregnant by receiving a gift—un regalo—from her brother, and by having a midwife put it inside of me. I blushed a little as she spoke, trying to focus on the choosing of new gifts, from his collection, but I was also so proud—of Javier for asking, of Kiki for telling, of our family for being. Javier looked toward my womb with wide eyes and smiled. Then looked at Lula and at me, and nodded.

“Do you have children?” Kiki asked him.

He did, and pulled out a photo of his 2-year-old daughter on his smartphone to prove it.

He returned day after day to sit and chat, have some water, and ask new questions. “How did you meet?” “How long have you been together?” “How can you get married?” “What do you call each other?”

Anna patiently allowing Lula to sample the necklaces.

We learned about him, too, and asked about the woman we had bought from the year before, Anna. He said they were friends, but that she had remained in Chiapas this year after giving birth to her fifth child.

“Oh, muy dificile,” Kiki said about five.

“Sí, muy dificile,” he agreed.

Anna had been our lesbian-pregnancy student last year. She, too, had shyly (but boldly) posed questions about where Lula came from. It took us quite a while to get her to believe we weren’t joking. “You don’t need a man?” she had asked, incredulously. She, too, came back day after day to visit and rest in our shade for a few minutes, and to ask us more questions.

We asked Javier to tell her hello. I hope she remembers us.

Lula, entranced, and Grandma sneaking a peek.

Today we—Mamo, Grandma, Grandpa and me—took Lula to her first Broadway show. Yes, “3 and a quarter” is early (I think I was about 9 or 10 for my first Broadway show, which I believe was either My One and Only or On Your Toes), but she’s been able to sit through 1- and 2-hour concerts and plays since she’s 2, and she is obsessed with Mary Poppins. (To wit: Her memorization of the lyrics has progressed to the point where, last night at dinner, she sang to me, with an English accent, this line from “Jolly Holiday”: “Your sweet gentility is crystal clear.” Huh?)

So the show was over-the-top thrilling. But I just wanted to note that, despite its complete awesomeness, what all four of us loved best, hands down, was watching Lula watch and love it so much. She sat transfixed for the entire 2 hours and 45 minutes, exploding into wild clapping and grinning (and occasional shrieking) after each big number, and just once breaking the no-talking-in-the-theater rule to announce, “Winifred changed her outfit!” The awe and wonder that spread across her face for the grand finale looked, as Mamo said, like something Disney pays child actors to do. But it was so real! It was hilarious how every time I sneaked a peek at Lula, I would find Grandma, Grandpa and Mamo already watching her intently, tears in their eyes.

Anyway, no big story here; just marveling at how the joy of a nascent theater lover easily steals the show—no matter who tap dances on the ceiling or flies, with the aid of her umbrella, up to the balcony.

V-Spot‘s Colombian empanadas—filled with spicy seitan, corn and carrots, from Park Slope’s Fifth Ave veggie cafe (currently renovating and reopening this spring). Delicious!

The empanada.

Goodie Girl Tribeca cookies—pitch-perfect chocolate-mint cookies, inspired by (and miraculously mimicking) Girl Scout Thin Mints, made by NYC’s own Shira Berk. They were even gluten-free.

The cookies.

Raw Ice Cream Company‘s ice creams—made from a basic blend of raw cashews, raw coconut, raw cocoa, agave and various flavorings; we indulged in the chocolate (what else?) and OMG! So wonderfully decadent.

The ice cream.

Sweet & Sara vegan marshmallows—we’ve been obsessed with these for months ever since they first appeared on the shelves at our local health-food store, and it was awesome to meet the genius candy-lady behind them (and stuff our faces with her addictive s’mores while we were at it).

Sweet & Sara

Lizzmonade—fresh lemonade blended with fresh pineapple and strawberries, sweetened with agave. Lula especially loved sucking it down with the fat purple straw!

It was a satisfying afternoon, both mentally and gastronomically. But, interestingly enough: Today we hit the Purim Carnival at the JCC (which we adore)—a mob scene, though a joyous one—where Lula experienced her very first cotton candy (gag!). She loved it, of course, seemingly just as much as the vegan marshmallows. And while the traditional treat would’ve served as a sweetly ironic and amusing footnote to the weekend, the carnival’s petting zoo did not. Terrified rabbits and reptiles, fenced off in the middle of the insanely crowded, loud, bouncy-house–filled gymnasium, sat cowering from the overexcited toddlers “petting” them. So unnecessary. So disheartening. So much still to explain to my little veggie girl.

Thank you, NYC Food Fest, for making compassionate eating the norm this weekend.

Lula, 1 month old, at her first protest, against the passage of Prop. 8 in Nov 2007 (please note Whoopi Goldberg in the background.)

I think I was around 30 when I started feeling slightly scared of teenagers on the subway—when I was far enough out of high school to be absolutely beyond relating as a peer, and too many years pre-motherhood to understand these creatures from a parent’s point of view. After-school rush hour is still my least-favorite time to ride the train—teens are just so loud! So unwieldy! So explosive with their jarring energy! And, although I am now the mom of a “threenager,” it’s really not quite the same.

But earlier this month, I made a decisive step to both renew my activist energy (the number of LGBT protests I’ve taken part in annually has been on a gradual decline since turning 35) and make some teenage connections—and, hopefully, to impact some young lives in the process. To that end, I spoke to a Gay-Straight Allience (GSA) on the Upper East Side as a volunteer with Live Out Loud. And it was an amazing experience.

Live Out Loud is an incredible organization that aims to “inspire and empower LGBT youth by connecting them with successful LGBT professionals in their community.” It’s a simple yet brilliant concept, especially in these times of bullying and unbearably sad suicides like that of Tyler Clementi (whose cyber-bullying case of NJ against Dharun Ravi continues this week), and tragedies like this week’s Ohio shooting rampage by TJ Lane, who, it should not be overlooked, has been described as an outcast by his peers.

The GSA I addressed—a group of about 10 young women (no boys in this one, interestingly enough) at the esteemed admissions-only Eleanor Roosevelt H.S.—was beyond impressive, comprised of wonderfully smart, sensitive, well-spoken kids. First they took part in a guided discussion about gay people they admired—and almost all, very sweetly, cited relatives, from a closeted gay aunt to an out-and-proud gay dad (“My father always told me there were three kinds of romantic love: between a man and a woman, a man and a man, and a woman and a woman,” this lovely daughter said).

Then I talked about my life and career, touching on coming out, my early activism, being out at work, my experience as a journalist focusing on LGBT issues, and about being a lesbian mom (including a brief lesson about how I went about getting pregnant—though I couldn’t tell, from the silence, if the details stunned them or if they were too city-sophisticated to flinch!). The girls became most animated when I passed around a few family photos, something that the Live Out Loud adviser had suggested I do. I suppose it wasn’t all that surprising, since, for queer kids having trouble feeling okay about themselves—even in Manhattan—it’s the hum-drum “normalcy” of gay family life that probably feels most extraordinary.

I know that, sometimes, it even feels that way to me.

The Live Out Loud 11th Annual Young Trailblazers Gala is Monday April 30, 6–9:3opm, at TheTimesCenter. Please join me!

Cynthia Nixon, snapped by me at the National Equality March in 2009 (the only image I knew I wouldn't be stealing)

Call me naive, but when I read Cynthia Nixon’s by-now famous comments in the New York Times Magazine about how being gay has been, for her, a choice, my only reaction was, “Yes! Finally! Someone has the guts to address the annoying ‘We Can’t Help It’ defense!” Sadly, it seems that much of the rest of LGBT World has reacted with anger and shame, and a closed-minded fear of hateful homophobes.

For those of you who missed it, here’s the controversial (awesome) excerpt:

“I gave a speech recently, an empowerment speech to a gay audience, and it included the line ‘I’ve been straight and I’ve been gay, and gay is better.’ And they tried to get me to change it, because they said it implies that homosexuality can be a choice. And for me, it is a choice. I understand that for many people it’s not, but for me it’s a choice, and you don’t get to define my gayness for me. A certain section of our community is very concerned that it not be seen as a choice, because if it’s a choice, then we could opt out. I say it doesn’t matter if we flew here or we swam here, it matters that we are here and we are one group and let us stop trying to make a litmus test for who is considered gay and who is not.” Her face was red and her arms were waving. “As you can tell,” she said, “I am very annoyed about this issue. Why can’t it be a choice? Why is that any less legitimate? It seems we’re just ceding this point to bigots who are demanding it, and I don’t think that they should define the terms of the debate. I also feel like people think I was walking around in a cloud and didn’t realize I was gay, which I find really offensive. I find it offensive to me, but I also find it offensive to all the men I’ve been out with.”

I was so proud when I read this, not only because she was brave enough to say it, but because I felt she spoke for me, as well. I spent the first half of my dating life being serially monogamous with men—lovely, smart, handsome, sensitive, sexy men. I allowed myself  to consider the option of women once I was about halfway through college—something I’d thought about from time to time growing up, but always pushed away because it seemed impossible and unacceptable and awful. But once I got brave enough to cross over to the dark side, there was no going back. It just felt, to quote Cynthia, “better.”

Did it mean all those hetero relationships had been lies? Absolutely not—not for me, and I am the only one I can speak for. Obviously I get that many queer people spend much of their existences living a lie. For me it wasn’t like that, but more of an organic evolution. Does it make me less legitimate in the eyes of most LGBT activists? Perhaps. The “choice” perspective is uncomfortable to some gays because they feel it weakens the argument that we deserve civil rights. And maybe it does, since the homophobes who want to keep us from being legitimate citizens will certainly not be able to wrap their tiny little evil brains around it; it’s just not black-and-white enough. I’m sure it’s strange for straight folks, too (especially, I’d imagine, parents), who cannot begin to imagine why it’s a choice that anyone would make and stick with, especially when the world makes it so damn hard.

I’m not quite buying that the LGBT community kerfuffle is quite as big as the media is making it out to be, since the only angry gays quoted in all of Google’s 172 related articles in a search of “Cynthia Nixon gay choice” are blogger John Aravosis, who has the gall to write that she is “wrong”; celebrity chef Cat Cora; Perez Hilton; and various Tweeters—not exactly the collective Queer Voice, in my humble opinion. But in any event, I’m not completely surprised at the criticism, as our community is not known for its overwhelming open-mindedness; just ask transgender folks, hasbians, bisexual men, or any other number of not-quite-ideal-enough queers.

When Lula is old enough to ask about all this stuff (goddess help us), I plan on being honest about it all, as best as I can. And when she’s old enough to start dating and falling in love, I hope she’ll make the best choice—or stay true to the unmovable way that she was born—in the best, most honest way she knows how to do.

Watching the lovely and proper Miss Mary P.

So since Lula turned 3 we’ve been slowly introducing the concept of the feature-length film. It’s been great fun sitting with her through a couple of our own childhood favorites, as well as some newfangled fare. But it’s been troubling, too, since we’ve yet to find a single tot-aimed flick that doesn’t have at least one big scary part. Granted, Lula scares easily (the sound of the vacuum—as well as the blender—rank high on her list of frights), and 3 is, in general, an age when fears are typical. And so, that said… Why the obsession with scary elements? And these are not fairy tales I’m talking about, which have long been targeted for being too bone-chilling for their target audience (how did we ever survive them?).

For starters, there’s Curious George, the 2006, generally-benign version of the classic that Lula adored—except for the part when the Man With the Yellow Hat cruelly calls the pound and watches while George is caged and hauled off, then stuck in the creepy lower level of a ship heading back to Africa. Did it really have to be so harsh?

We didn’t even get halfway through The Jungle Book, when the fierce tiger, Shere Kahn, first slips into the frame; but even before that, she was spooked by the panther’s manner, and the creepy ways of various snakes, chimps and other creatures. Even good ol’ Mary Poppins (her current favorite) isn’t free of frights: The bank scene, when the scary old men steal Michael’s tuppence, is totally creepy, and what follows—Jane and Michael escaping the fracas by running into dark alleyways populated by a shady lady and fierce street dog—is even worse. “This is when they get lost,” Lula says right before the scene, clutching at our pants legs.

But the worst offender so far is actually Winnie the Pooh. I know, it seems crazy; what’s so scary about a silly old bear and his quirky coterie of pals? Plenty! In Winnie the Pooh (2011), the movie’s plot centers around the stuffed creatures getting worked up with fear over an imagined monster, while simultaneously trying to find Eeyore’s lost tail. And in Pooh’s Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin (1997), the animals spend their time cowering with fear as they journey through Hundred Acre Woods trying to rescue their human friend from yet another imaginary beast. Is Winnie the Pooh supposed to be for 6-year-olds? I mean, everything else about it is so basic, it really seems that 3-year-olds should be the ideal target. If not for the scary beasts, of course.

(For an amusing take on some other frightening kids’ films, by the way, check out this great Babble piece.)

So what’s it all about? I suspect it’s pretty simple: that marketers are afraid of gearing a kids’ film toward only one age group, for worries that it pulls in too limited an audience.  Or perhaps it’s been suggested that introducing frightful tales and imagery is actually good for little ones. My sister-in-law (mom to kids 3 and 5) had a healthy take on it, positing that it was useful for preschoolers to learn how to work through fears, and to understand that just because you are scared doesn’t mean everything won’t work out in the end. And that perspective helps. Still, does anyone out there know of just a single tot film that is completely free and clear of scary parts? Because these mamas want to know.

Chilling with her best pal, Zoe, in Provincetown this fall.

Suddenly everyone’s talking about how great it will be to get 3-year-old Lula “socialized.” Besides the fact that the word itself sounds like a disease, the concept—Play dates! Birthday parties! Playground buddies!—is one that I am secretly, if only partially, dreading. Right now, with the exception of two actual children, a sweet brother-sister pair, whom she sees on occasion and adores, our daughter’s most inner circle consists entirely of people over 40: her awesome babysitter, a talented professional musician and her cool lawyer girlfriend, a Provincetown gallery owner/painter, our loving massage-therapist friend/neighbor, and her doting uncles George and Trevor. And I have to admit that we love it that way. Her preference of adults over kids is understandable—peers would certainly not let her be adored as the center of attention in the same way—and it allows us to carry on socializing with grownups, while including her, in a way that will most certainly come to an end very soon. So, while we’re definitely looking forward to her starting an alternative-preschool program next month (stay tuned) and getting her more turned on to folks in her age group, we’ll be relishing an adults-only January, too.

Reading to Raggedy this summer.

Our 3-year-old has a wide range of passions—from playing her instruments (especially the ukelele, maracas and harmonica) and painting with watercolors to playing dress-up (particularly with anything pink, purple or sparkly) and listening to her favorite musical artists: Zoe Lewis and, more recently, Lady Gaga (more on that another time). But there’s probably nothing she loves doing more than selecting a stack of books, cuddling up with one of us and being read to. Books, more than anything, are her window to the world. And that’s why we are prone to rejiggering/editing/censoring—call it what you will—the words from time to time.

Generally, concepts we censor include: God and overt religion (like praying), eating meat, ridiculous gender statements (typically things like the “Ew, boys are yukky!” stuff in the annoying Fancy Nancy and the Sensational Babysitter, a gift from a sitter) and, occasionally, fathers.

Sure, go ahead and roll your eyes. But before you decide that these two mommies are control freaks who have lost their grip on reality, here are some basic thoughts on our logic (most likely completely over-thought, like much of our parenting; sorry, we’re process-y lesbians. So sue us!):

1. God gets slashed because it’s just too complicated a subject to introduce at this point, especially when I’m still not sure of what I believe and when Lula’s other mother is a self-defined spiritual atheist (“If there is such a thing,” she adds). And because she’ll spend the rest of her life thinking about these huge concepts, and it’s just not necessary yet. This one comes up a bit regularly in our library, as we got a monthly Jewish-book subscription from a dear friend, with stories usually conveniently about whatever holiday is about to occur. They’re most often just about the family or ritual aspects—you sit and eat at a seder for Passover, you light candles and spin a dreidel for Hanukkah—but every once in a while God sneaks in (I guess you could call it a Reform-Jew book subscription). Here’s our most recent edit, in the adorable Sadie’s Sukkah Breakfast:

"They thanked God for their beautiful sukkah, their delicious food, and their wonderful friends" becomes "They were thankful for their beautiful sukkah…"

No biggie, right? Right.

2. Meat gets the boot because, simply, we’re a vegetarian family and we want to make sure she’s sufficiently brainwashed before allowing carnivorous behavior to become a normal part of life. Seriously. We spend a lot of time talking about how we love animals, and therefore don’t eat them. Being veg is just normal to her at this point—and sometimes the way meat eating is presented in books is less than sensitive. Recently, we were pedaling the bike trails in Provincetown when we came upon some beautiful wild turkeys waddling through the dunes. I reminded her of them right before Thanksgiving, explaining that some people actually eat turkeys for the holiday, but that we don’t, because they are beautiful creatures that we love. She totally got it. But sometimes it’s a point not worth getting into. Like in this awesome book she got as a gift recently: My Foodie ABC, which has items like alfajores (yum), jicama (awesome) and quinoa (yes!)—and, wouldn’t you know it, Kobe beef. This was an edit that proved tricky. We couldn’t just change K to kale, because there’s a picture of fat cows grazing. So instead we left it all, including the last line: “These animals are fed a very special diet, massaged daily, and brushed regularly,” and just cut out the end of that sentence, “…to keep their meat tender.” Too gruesome, even if it would probably be over her head. So now it’s just a random, cute, apparently irrelevant cow.

3. Not all fathers get the boot—the vast majority, in fact, get to stay, especially when they are central to the storyline, such as in the Knuffle Bunny series. But, while we certainly don’t want to pretend that the world is made up of two-mommy families, we also want to at least get our 10% due appearance. And since there are not a ton of books out there to help us out (big shout out to Lesléa Newman!), we sometimes have to take matters into our hands. Luckily, there are enough times when the dads happen to look a lot like Lula’s other mom—like in the awesome Soup Day, below—and so then, presto chango, they go from being “daddy” to “mamo” [má-mo], our own special made-up word for my partner, kind of like the masculine form of “mama” (which we happen to think is genius).

"And then mamo's home! Now it's time to eat our soup!"

Anyway, I almost didn’t write this post, because I couldn’t figure out if I was proud or embarrassed, but here’s the thing: It’s only a matter of time before she starts preschool, has friends from all walks of life (hopefully), and becomes addicted to her iPhone like the rest of the world. Until then, why not filter information in a way that fits perfectly into our value system? It’s our only chance to make such a pure impression, while she still listens intently to what we say, and wants to please us, and is not yet screaming “I hate you!” while doing things like admiring Republicans and pining for an SUV just to spite us. She’s like a gorgeous, precious sponge right now, and we want her soaking up all that is good and fair and beautiful and logical (in our humble opinions). We won’t be able to control the floodgates for much longer. But for now, well, long live censorship.
Anyone else out there edit/rejigger/censor? Please, do tell by posting a comment!