Out of the Mouths of Babes

Riis likes cinnamon in her apples and curry in her sweet potatoes. She is quick to laugh, and furious when thwarted, especially if a bottle is just out of her reach or when the dog dishes are whisked to the counter as she's crawl-dragging herself over to them. She loves to tumble around in the bed, laughing her throaty little chuckle as she slams up against me to bury her face in my chest, but sometimes she just wants to be left to her own devices with the scattered field of toys in the living room. She knows--fully--when she's asked not to do something, and visibly calculates what she might be able to get away with. (Her flirtation with electrical cords demonstrates this perfectly.) She's completely her own person, and such a different being than Cole. It's magic (exhausting, but magic) watching a totally new person evolve.

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Josh is working tonight, covering the VMAs, which, since he was in Vegas for his draft on Friday and (sort of) Saturday, means it's the third night in a row I'm doing bedtime. Cole is thoroughly sick of it. Bedtime is dad's territory, and he's had enough of my attempts to do Josh's voices and rituals. I don't know how his stuffed rabbit "Slim" talks, and I never pick the right books.
He's patient about it, hilariously. He sighs and tells me what I'm doing wrong and waits for me to feebly attempt to do it "like daddy."

Anyway, tonight we did two Spiderman books (shoot me, they are so goddamn boring), then ABC USA, this really cool illustrated alphabet book that's completely American-- everything from L is for Liberty Bell to V is for Valley Forge.

So we get to "W is for White House" and I sort of absently started to talk about the presidential election.
He's heard about it before, and likes to say "Barack Obama," mostly, I think, because it's like a tongue-twister. Anyway, I reiterated that there are two guys running for president, John McCain and Barack Obama.

Who, I queried, does Mommy and Daddy want to win?

"Barack Obama," he answered confidently.
Then he looked at me, alarmed. "We don't want John Coo-Coo to win!"
No idea where he got that from, but it delighted me nonetheless.