I've been hesitant to write this post because this blog isn't about motherhood. It's not about adoption. It's not even about idiots, although perhaps it should be. Think of the possibilities! This post is about the intersection of the three, and I hope you'll forgive me for taking this moment to be a parent. A parent of an adopted child. A parent of an adopted child, born into a world of idiots (and wonderful people, too; but this isn't a story about them). Any member of a biracial family has a story (or twenty) about some less-than-thoughtful question, posed by a complete stranger, as to how this particular grouping of people came to be a group. "Is she adopted?" is the question I get most often. I'm not sure why the lady behind me in the grocery store line cares, but sure, she's adopted. I'm proud of her heritage and I want her to be as well. So when people (inexplicably) whisper that question, I'm happy to smile and answer with the