Obama

No, I won't get all politico on yo ass. Not this time. This post is ode to Egan. Not my favorite child, no. Just the one who provides hours of funny shit to share.

What's with all the swearing, E M I L Y?

Bear with me. I graduate on Saturday and my period's a'coming. I deserve it. Not to mention the fact that I chose to rise this morning well before the sun in order to get some last minute school work done and walk the dog before the kiddies rub their sleepy eyes.

Boo!

The past few days Egan has been hearing the name Barack Obama on the radio. A lot. Who hasn't? As is most intellects, Egan is quite perceptive. In the car, "Mom, they say Barack Obama." In the kitchen, "Mom, they say Barack Obama."

What I find the most amusing is trying to imagine what Egan believes to be a barack obama. I shouldn't even capitalize as I don't think he knows it's a person.

This afternoon as I'm preparing dinner, I observe Egan with my Mom's Third Eye. You know, the one on the back of my head? He's talking to the dishes and "whomever else" is accompanying him. But please don't picture anyone because this is one of those magical moments my sister refers to as The Bubble.

Do. Not. Pop. The. Bubble.

It's when the kids are playing so intently in their own little worlds that you hate to disturb any itty bitty piece of it. So I don't.

"You want barack obama?" he gently asks.
"Oh yes, thank you," he replies.

In a higher tone...

"Do you want a barack obama?"
"No, not now."