Foot in Mouth Disease

Up till now, I thought I had absolutely nothing in common with G.W. Bush. Then, I was taking my daughter to the what-not shop in Dinkytown to find a birthday gift for a friend, and we saw a slew of magnets with ridiculous quotes from the prez. For example, “I know how hard it is to put food on your family,” and “More and more of our foreign imports come from overseas.” I’m a sucker for this stuff, even if I understand that anybody, after all, can become tongue-tied and say embarrassing things. It happens to me all the time. Still, I wouldn’t consider this common ground with George. Especially considering his attitude toward the French. Just last week a pal of mine who is himself married to a Frenchie asked if I’ve been getting any flak for my heritage. If I have, I haven’t noticed.

For example, immediately after leaving the gift shop, I took my kids to sip some lemonade at an outdoor table at the Loring Pasta Bar, and since the sun was so radiant in the sky, and since my name is French, I encouraged us all to speak with French accents and pretend we were dining at a Parisian café in springtime. I was instantly reminded of my brother-in-law’s recent experience in Paris, because somehow Harry, like G.W., has a way of getting into scuffles. It began with the hotel not offering any coffee in the morning, thus forcing Harry to go in search of it. As you may already know, Paris is not yet dotted with strip malls with Starbucks and Caribous on every corner, so Harry had to get his coffee at the only place that offered it: McDonalds. As it happened, the French McD’s coffees were petite by U.S. super-size standards, so Harry needed a few. Six to be exact, except he had his numbers in fractured Spanish. “Seis?” asked the cashier. “Oui, seis,” said Harry. “Seis?” “Oui, seis.” “Seis?” And so on. God, I love being French.

But still, it wasn’t until much later, back at home, doing research of another sort, that I happened upon this little jewel that G.W. uttered back in April a year ago, while ruminating on the challenges of educating children: “Sometimes when I sleep at night I think of Hop on Pop.” Really? He does? So do I! There is this mournful passage that goes something like, “Dad is sad, dad had a bad day, what a day dad had.” That one lingers every time I read it, and if you haven’t read it yourself recently, pick it up, you’ll see what I mean.

Of course, I’m a teacher, and that’s how it is working with kids. You never leave it behind. It follows you home, joins you for dinner, and crawls into bed with you at night. You never get it out of your head and for the most part, you don’t even try. Of course, you’re not also running the nation with a head all full of Hop on Pop. If you were, you would not have the time and clarity for urgent matters such as international relations. Which helps to explain why Bush admitted, only a few weeks after hopping on Pop, “This foreign policy stuff is a little frustrating.” Yes, apparently. Finally, an explanation, albeit certainly not an excuse.

You see, what I’d like to explain to George is that it’s frustrating for me, too, this foreign policy stuff of his. War and its aftermath gets me all distracted from putting food on my family, let alone concentrating on my work. It makes me feel helpless and out of control, because I believe I ought to be doing something, and don’t know how or what. I keep wondering about those Iraqi kids and what really happens next, what’s really going on over there. It sends me into immediate overload. I have so many kids on my mind already. For better or worse, the most I can do is what’s in front of me.

Which happened this morning to be two robins, behaving very oddly. They appeared to be sparring, and though you might surmise it was mating and I just didn’t recognize it, I don’t think so. My son and I agreed that they were fighting, perhaps over a mate. “But they won’t kill each other, Mom,” he assured me, sweet golden-haired ten-year-old that he is. “Because humans are the only species that kill their own kind.” He’s thought a lot about violence in these last months, so much so that he’s actually considering retiring his squirt “guns” for less overtly violent “water shooters.” I’ve been around the “ban all replicas of guns” block already, and for the moment I’m leaving it all up to him. Even to the extent of not questioning his assertion about which species kill. Finally, I’ve learned to shut up and let my kids do some figuring out on their own, right, wrong, or somewhere in between. After all, just like G.W., most things eventually speak for themselves.