Glued to the Tube

As is my job, I picked up Josie from school this afternoon. As she came out the school door, I observed her in full-blown-panick-attack and tears (she knew we were going to the doctor's to get flu shots, which to Josie is a sentence worse than a day without computer privileges...). I also noticed that she was wearing not one, but two, "I voted" stickers -- one of which was identical to what I received from my election site. I asked her about it, and she said they held a presidential election at school. Josie described their version of balloting, including folding their special papers in half and depositing in a big brown box. She said that everyone's vote was a secret, though she also claimed to know that the boy sitting next to her (whom she talks about a lot -- I suspect is her next crush) voted for Obama. Now Josie really is in love.

Now before I get accused of raising my daughter to be an Obamaniac, I must report that I have never-not once-ever said anything to her about my enthusiasms for Obama. Her class at school has done a terrific job of studying the candidates, and even participated in an exercise in political surrogacy when a few fifth graders came down to her first grade class to represent and enlighten about the presidential candidates. While I'm pleased with Josie's choice, I'm prouder she came to her own conclusion.

Nevertheless, like the rest of the world hours before polls close, Josie is eager. She asked me on the way to get the flu shot whether Obama won. I told her people were still voting, and that she may not find out until after she wakes up in the morning. I explained that later tonight the polls would close and that television news would begin to post election results. Now, Josie is glued to the TV just like the rest of us, only she's not looking to see how Pennsylvania, Florida, Indiana, Missouri, and Colorado go, Josie is staring at the screen eagerly awaiting Tom Brokaw to tell her the results for Daly Elementary....

Oh, there were screams and wails at the doc's office, and that was even before the shot was given. Actually the drama stopped once the needle struck, realizing that the worry was so much worse than reality. A trip to DQ helped to salve any lingering wound. As for the sound an Arctic Rush makes when dropped from a table onto the restaraunt's tile floor, you'll just have to imagine.