From November: 2009. Lily: three years old.
Scene: We're at Burger King, watching President Obama pardon the
turkey. Neither of my children are wearing shoes and the smell of
boiling fat permeates the air. BTW, Burger King is where we go for all
of our sociopolitical enrichment. We're classy that way.
"Do you guys see those girls behind the president? Those are his
daughters. Wouldn't it be weird if your dad was president?"
"Um, the way it would *really* go, Mommy, is that *you'd* be the
president and I'd have to call you 'Mommy President' and we'd live in
the White House."
Me: "You make a very good point."
Sam: "But can girls even be president?"
Me: "Not that it's apparent historically speaking, but absolutely girls can be the president."
Sam: "Huh. Lily, do you want to be the president?"
[thinks for a moment.] "What I want is to be a giant and then to tower
SO HIGH that I'm a voice in the sky. And I'll BOOM. I'll say 'PEOPLE!
LISTEN!' And then I'll mush them."
[Six years in and her plans for world domination are still going strong. As the back yard neighbor said last night, "That kid is something. Either she's going to save the world, or blow it up. I'm not entirely sure which yet." Sentiment: prettymuch right on. Happy Birthday, kid. You awe everyone around you.]
A column about enduring
1 day ago