I snapped at my daughter twice last week. That’s never happened before.
It shocked us both.
“What’s your problem?” she said.
I didn’t know.
An hour ago I’m in Target, watching her buy furnishings for her college dorm room. The one she’s moving into on Sunday. As I watch her walking up and down the aisles, making careful, deliberate choices, it’s suddenly November, 1996. She’s two years old. We get up early, watch Barney’s Imagination Island. When it ends, I say, “Today’s a special day.”
“Why?” she says.
I look around, lower my voice. “Every four years while the kids are in school, the parents sneak out and vote for the next president.”
“What’s president mean?”
“That’s the person in charge of the whole United States.”
“What’s vote mean?”
“You know how the teacher asks how many want to draw and how many want to read? And you raise your hands and she counts them?”
“It’s like that.”
“Are you gonna vote?” she says.
“Yes. And you’re coming with me!”
She’s grinning from ear to ear. Beaming.
“Why are you so happy?” I ask.
“I know who you’re gonna vote for!” she says.
“Yes. You’re gonna vote for me.”