Got two kids.
The older one, the almost six year-old, is the deep political thinker in the family, but the three-and-a-half year-old is starting to get involved as well.
"Which one is Barammobama?" he asks me whenever I'm watching the news...
I point out Obama on the TV screen.
"What Barammobama do's?"
I explain confidently. Senator. Running for President. Very inspiring to Daddy.
"Why he do's that?"
I explain slightly less confidently, after all... why "do's" anyone anything?
"Is Barammobama going to win?"
In nod my head. Say yes. Worry a little bit about what happens if he "do'sn't" win.
Will that throw my son into a tizzy?
Daddy said he'd win... he didn't... so Daddy can be wrong?
Then again, given some of Daddy's dubious and colorful parenting choices, I figure I'm going to confirm that fact a hundred times over.
So, I revel in my son's onomonopoetic obsession with my chosen candidate for President.
Flailing his plastic light-saber, "Barammobama!"
Racing away on his tricycle, "Ba-Ba-Barammobama."
Sitting on the toilet, echoing off the tile "Barammooooooooooooooooobama!"
Last Sunday I take him to my weekly pick-up basketball game (as I often do) and while I'm setting him up on the sideline with portable video player (Sleeping Beauty, figure that) and snacks he turns to all and says, "Mr. Barammobama going to win it all!"
I nod... I smile... my heart swells as the Triumphant music plays, because I have become Super Progressive Dad, cape and all, raising his son right (or left... or correctly left)!
Now, skip to the end of the game. I'm guarding a guy named Hal, who has the ball and is backing me down in the paint. Hal turns... he shoots... nothing but net!
My son jumps to his feet, clapping: "Barammobama won! Barammobama won!"
I nod, my smile slowly fading as it dawns on me... Hal is African-American and, apparently... my son thinks Hal is Barack Obama. I have gone, in an instant, from Super Progressive Dad, to the dude who's son thinks all black people look the same.
After the game, we go outside and on the way to the car, we pass a late-fifties blonde woman who is walking down the street and heading into a church.
"That is NOT Hillary Clinton," I feel compelled to say.