Posted by muffintopmommy | Posted in Awesomeness, Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, Things that make you go....awwww, Uncategorized | Posted on 25-07-2012

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Last week my seven year old asked if we could get an indoor pool. I tried to give him a quick throwdown in economics that roughly amounted to we’re not rich, famous, rich and famous, richly famous or famously rich. This is the same dude who lost a tooth last month and when I asked him what I thought the tooth fairy might leave him, he responded, “I hope a thousand dollars!” Kid, for a grand, I’ll pull my own tooth and dance a jig by the Cheez Doodles at Walmart. Until then, it’s $5 per tooth and a blow up pool for you, mister!

After Hooked on Econ, I had to teach three year old about hierarchy when he tried to call me out in my own family room. “Why YOU get to drink in here, MA-MAAAA?” I get to drink in here because I pay the mortgage. And I’m an adult and I won’t spill much of it. Maybe I was being more dictator. Tomato, toma-toe. Sue me for wanting to wash down an adult bev during Fresh Beat Band. It gets me in a party mood.

Today? My five year old asked me with a straight face, “Mom, when can we go to Washington D.C. to meet the President?”

Well now you’re talking! Let’s talk democracy! I pretty much told him the prez and all the pols work for us, this is true, but! But! You’d have a better chance of landing a playdate with Suri and Curious George than meeting him.

He looked at me blankly.

“We can’t just roll on up to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. and yell for Barack Obama to come out and play!”

He didn’t seem satisfied.

Credit: Someecards

I love that kids are not cynical. That they really think they can have indoor pools and meet and greets with the President. That they have little concept of money or wealth or power. Or lack of it. That a five year old thinks we can just waltz on up to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. and ring for Barack has to be the very definition of ignorance being bliss.

“Baraaack?? Michelle??? We’re here! Got any juice boxes??? 95 was a bitch and I’mmmmm thirsty! Some stupid motorcade was in our way. Pfft!”

I’m fairly certain the Secret Service might flatten the muffo de toppo if I hopped the fence to try to make some casual introductions. (What other fun family outings can we plan that will get us on the FBI watch list? I do like to encourage some hands on summer learnin’ so we could start with an introduction to the judicial system—screw those boring childrens’ museums!)

I do like that five year old is aiming high though, I really do. I mean, we live in New Hampshire, where future presidents mingle amongst the masses of asses during primary season, and hey, we did meet a future Senator at the town dump one day! (She looked fabulous and even the eau de dump did not overshadow her brightness. I had on no makeup and a baseball hat. I suppose I should be grateful “Lisa the crappy photographer” was not at the ready this time!)

The questions never cease around here and I try to be prepared but sometimes? I’m caught sans make up with a beat up baseball hat and nothing intelligent to offer. (Please refer to Seth Meyers post.)

So having said that, don’t you want to try your luck? Next Tuesday night, the 31st, I’m having a video book chat to talk Mommy Mixology¬†and other fun biz on Shindig from 8 PM to 9 PM eastern standard time. You can ask me anything you want and I may or may not answer intelligently–won’t it be fun to find out! I should qualify, I will answer¬†almost anything. I will never reveal my pant size. Seven year old knows it because he busted in on me in the bathroom one day (imagine that!) and then shouted it out because the Gap (thanks for nothing!) had to print the size on the waistband of my shorts in like 32 point font. Why God why? In case I went shorts shopping and forgot my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass??? Bad, Gap, bad. That’s what I get for straying from my bestie Land’s End with their tiny size tags. Anyway, don’t even dream of shaking it out of seven year old. He pinky promised not to tell anyone. He might have visions of grandeur and no concept of money, but he knows a promise is a promise and he knows who keeps him in ice cream and juice.


Here are the deets if you want to Shindig it up with me–apparently you need to sign up to join in on the adventure:

As an added bonus, Lisa the crappy photographer will be on hand to assist me and wrestle me to the ground if I try to wear my psychadelic Seth Meyers shirt! I am already giddy with delight at how super svelte and wonderful I will look under the glow of my laptop cam! Suhhweeet!!!