By Barbara Falconer Newhall

I think of irises as a common, garden-variety flower.

You see them growing everywhere. Our own back yard had dozens of them growing wildish when we moved in thirty-plus years ago, and now we have a mess of them growing in our front yard and along the street.  But it wasn't until this spring that I took the time to notice how intricate -- and elegant -- these flowers truly are.

An entire universe of stuff is quietly going about its business at our front gate while commute traffic zooms by.

It so happens there's a mildly raunchy mommy blogger out there who calls herself, appropriately enough, The Bearded Iris. She's getting nervous about losing her bloggerly anonymity because her kids' friends can now read. I sympathize.

The columns I used to write for the Oakland Tribune when my kids were little were not a problem -- until the stories I wanted to tell started having to do with things like dancing (and maybe hand-holding, possibly even kissing ) at certain pre-adolescent parties I was privy to.

As a result of social pressures, real and imagined, The Bearded Iris thinks she might have to tone down her writing -- or go underground and write her blog anonymously until her kids are grown up enough to appreciate her gutsy sense of humor.

By then, I'll have split the rhizomes of my fecund bearded irises a few more times and once again looked around for a neighbor to take the surplus off my hands.