What a wonderful time of year. As I write, a summer rain is falling. Instead of bundling up in layers, tripling my normal circumference, I trot happily about in flip-flops and T-shirts. The flowers, I note, are doing their flower thing; the vegetables are doing their growing thing; and the children, from the sounds of it, are doing that chasing thing. Well, rats.
Over in another town, the father of the running, chasing children labors in stillness, free as a meadowlark. No one is slamming doors, pounding through the hall, setting off firecrackers or pilfering his food stores. They don’t pillage in his village. How nice.
It was the thunderous pursuit the other day that did it. Hearing it, the proverbial light bulb lit up above my curly head. Like that, the answer to the mischief and mayhem in Washington was suddenly, startlingly clear. I should send those boys to the White House.
Over the years, I had offered to go myself. Surely, I posited, a mother of four boys could straighten out that mess, so I announced my plans to The Mister. “I’m running for President.”
He sighed. “Well, the White House was white when we got there…” His voice trailed off. I sighed, too, knowing what he meant. Being solidly in the peanut-butter-and-jelly stage of parenting, I could read the cards. Those kids would leave their mark, and it’d look like sticky walls, bananas smashed into the carpet and globs of jelly clumped careless on the floor, just waiting for a presidential sock.
Apparently, the voters knew it, too, and, despite my common-sense platform and hand-lettered Crayola signs, turned my debut campaign into the Bridge to Nowhere. To this day, I think it was the jelly. But then came the chase and a decision.
I need some babysitters. That’s what I’ve decided, and I think the Obamas could help. The President must be stressed with the Very Big and Important Business of Running the Country, and Mrs. Obama must be tired of giving speeches and tinkering with school lunches. Having a couple of boys in the Oval Office could be just the break they need.
After raising two girls, the Schrocklets would bring some real action and excitement to the First Family. You haven’t really lived until you’ve had loud poppers going off. On the floor. In your kitchen, dropped “on accident” by two grubby, little paws. The fun factor will go through the roof for everyone, staff included, who haven’t been on their toes like this since Gorbachev’s last visit.
Now, the best defense with boys is a good offense. That means keeping them busy. For a small fellow who eats, sleeps and breathes baseball, all the world’s a diamond. I recommend a baseball game.
Here’s where Congress comes in. If the President called an all-congressional baseball game, it would do a couple of things. First, if Little is using his hands to bat, field and drill the ball to first, then he’s too busy to drop any poppers, sending the sous chef through the rafters.
Second, if the politicians are busy using their voting hands to bat, field and drill outs to, well, anywhere, then they’re not using them to raise our taxes, steal our freedoms or draft more regulations. There’s that.
To keep Inspector Gadget happy, I’d recommend an Xbox tournament. We voters want those hands busy so they’re not slipping into our back pockets. And they’ll want his hands busy so he’s not unleashing his favorite, a Thunder King, on the White House lawn. After that, they can join him for another hobby—running laps.
Here, he runs the perimeter of our property. There, he can lead them on the presidential track. It’s to be hoped that they can share it in a mature, adult fashion. If John Boehner, for instance, laps Nancy Pelosi, he shouldn’t resort to the old recess chant (“Nanny, nanny, boo-boo”). Likewise, Harry Reid better not slap “kick me” signs on Republican backs as he jogs past. Those kinds of shenanigans got us paddled when we were kids, and we hope our pols are bigger.
To make it easier for the Obamas, I’ll send a few tips along up with the boys. First of all, keep plenty of pizza on hand, and cookies.
Secondly, keep the speeches short. It was at the end of a lengthy church service recently that Little Schrock stood, relieved, at benediction’s end and exclaimed, “Finally!” This threw nearby congregants into kinks of laughter. To hear this ringing through the chamber at the end of the highly-televised State of the Union speech doesn’t bear thinking about. I’d keep it short.
Lastly, at important state dinners, check for whoopee cushions before sitting down. Don’t even ask. Just trust me on this.
Hopefully, the President will enjoy this break from running the country. Shoot, his day job might seem like a cakewalk after a week or two with the Schrocklets. If that’s the case, hey. You’re welcome. Let me know when we can do it again.