A license plate is a tiny canvas for personal expression. For fifteen years, Wendy Auger used hers to share a smile, sporting “PB4WEGO”—a lighthearted nod to the realities of parenting. In all that time, it prompted only positive reactions. Then, without precedent, the state of New Hampshire declared it “offensive” and demanded it back. The move has sparked a surprising battle over meaning, context, and the reach of bureaucratic authority.
To Auger, the plate was a token of identity, a way to silently say, “I’m a mom, and I get it.” Its message is woven into the fabric of family life, a practical reminder devoid of malice or edge. The state’s sudden objection felt like a betrayal of that common understanding, reframing a harmless inside joke as something requiring censure. The lack of a clear, reasonable explanation has been as frustrating as the decision itself.
Officials reference policies that guard against obscenity, but the application here has been widely questioned. This isn’t a case of pushing boundaries; it’s a case of a government agency seemingly forgetting how to read the room. Auger’s resistance has turned her personal grievance into a public symbol, challenging the rigid, context-blind enforcement of rules that can stifle innocent expression.
The outpouring of support highlights a shared concern: the erosion of small, everyday liberties. People see in Wendy’s predicament a warning—that even the most benign forms of self-expression are vulnerable if common sense is absent from governance. Her fight transcends a metal plate. It’s about preserving the right to a little joy, a little connection, and a little personality in the public square, without having to ask for permission.
