IF SIX YEAR OLDS COULD VOTE

If six year olds could vote, we'd finally be on the right path.

Last night's AP Poll says we're in a dead heat (44/43) going into the Presidential election. But that's a poll of Americans who are 18 years or older.

I'd like the AP to poll six year olds. In that demographic, there would be no dead heat--there would be a landslide in the making--for Barak Obama.

We live in such scary, dicey times, right? Not six year olds. They live in the real world, which means playing rain or shine, not suffering the coat that is too itchy, fearlessly jumping off of high places, running more than walking, singing when the mood strikes. They are color-blind, gender-blind, money-blind, hatred-blind. They fight fair and love deeply. They want to touch everything, read everything, know everything, be everything. They are alive. And, oh yeah: they love boogers.

And they LOVE Barack Obama.

Why? I think it has something to do with their ability to read an aura, even with sound bites and pundits and fine print and lousy rhetoric clamoring to cloud the atmosphere. Six year olds are inexorably drawn to honesty, integrity, and authenticity and are repelled by anything that has even the slightest whiff of "con" to it.

As E says whenever he sees the candidates "Yah! Obama! Boo! McCain!" (It is worth noting that he was saying this even while I was working on behalf of Hillary Clinton, so it is an innate integrity thing for sure, not just the parroting of parental partisanship.)

Six year olds are sober, sane, and grounded in reality. They are, quite vividly, here in the world now--present in a way that most of us struggle to be everyday.

If only they could vote.

Morning Glory

This was a wildly rich week. So I'm just going to write down the things that blew my mind, beginning with the Morning Glory muffins and ending with Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds.

We made morning glory muffins last weekend--dozens of them. The recipe (my mom's) was so huge that we (me, E, and C--E's dad) were all involved and there were many bowls in play, the food processor whirring, lots of peeling, etc. In the end, I had to mix it all up in a giant pasta pot. What's in a morning glory muffin you ask? Mounds of fresh grated carrot, fresh grated apple, coconut, raisins, cups and cups of flour, some sugar. A half dozen eggs. I was making them for E's class, where the rule is "only fruits and veg" for snack time. I figured if I used wheat flour--and given that the recipe called for 8 cups of fresh grated fruit and veg--I'd be okay. (But that's another story--rule breaking is a no-no in P's class, no matter how delicious the pavement on that road to hell may be.)

So I was making small muffins for small people. A big mistake, in terms of time: I was looking at about 10 gallons of batter and one tiny pan that made a dozen tiny muffins at a time. After about the first 6 dozen, a bit of a mood descended, and I felt like I was baking for a prison population, albeit an adorable one. (I thought about my mom, who, when she made these, was baking for seven, which, from her point of view, was probably also a kind of prison population.) I didn't give up though, and ten dozen muffins later....

The Highlights of the Week:

E saying, at dinner one night, when offered some of the last, fresh farmer's market tomato we'd see until next year: "Mom. You know I only like atoes that begin with a P, I don't like atoes that begin with a T." Who knew I was having dinner with Dr. Seuss?

Taking the train to Stamford to see C, her daughter L (one of E's first friends--they met in prenatal yoga) and C's 8 month old twins. E wanting to trade his stuffed red panda for darling wee C, the boy baby. Sorry. No go.

My friend A coming all the way from Seattle and meeting E for the very first time--in Central Park. It was like a scene from a movie: the kids scrambling all over the Alice In Wonderland sculpture while white fluffy clouds bounced by. A jazz band planted on a bench, striking it up just as the sun started to sparkle. It was obscenely gorgeous-perfect. And so New York, where random moments of awesomeness like this happen all the time.

Then A, who has MS, ditching her motorized scooter downstairs--making her way one step at a time up to our 5th Floor apartment -- to join us for dinner and the debate (E: "Debate? What?! Are they fishing?" Thanks, Shecky.). When she got to our landing, I thought "Fuck Sir Edmond Hillary's effort: AD is my new hero."

So we had pot roast (my mom's killer recipe--again), wine, and apple tart from A&V. E and A did math homework while I cooked. Then after E went to bed, we watched the VP debate. At the end, A and I turned to each other, and, at the same moment, said "Todd Palin's kind of a fox." There is always a silver lining.

Saw gorgeous young mom-writer-chef A for lunch and was reminded that there's just no perfect in this life. But there is a big difference between imperfect and just plain lame. Sigh. Anyway: if there were such a thing as perfect, she's pretty close.

And then yesterday, feeling dog tired after a busy week and E off for a guy adventure with his dad, I rallied and did something I've never done before: I scalped a ticket for a show. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. It was in the little theater in Madison Square Garden. 3,000 hungry souls, looking for a bit of brilliance in the midst of these muddled times we live in. We got it. Nick Cave. Uh. He is....

Let me call upon the author to explain...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4k2Hf6Vc2FE

If you can't get to this video via this link--look him up: will be the best thing you've done for yourself in a very long time.