Olivia keeps talking about “When I’m President of the United States.” I think it’s a great testament to the feminist movement that there has never been doubt in my daughter’s mind that it’s a possibility.
At the same time, though, she loves animals and wants to be a veterinarian. I asked her to reconcile this.
“I’ll live in the White House and have a vet clinic out back,” she answered. Like, obviously?
I told her I would love to have her as President right now, in fact. She has thought for years that being POTUS is akin to having a superpower and that the President must be omnipotent, omniscient, happy, and rich.
“If I got to be President right now, I’d buy you guys a house. But not right across the street,” she clarified.
“Why?” I whined. I have attachment issues.
“Because I don’t want you telling me to go to bed at 7:30 and that I can’t eat McFlurries,” said Olivia.
“Fine. Who’s going to take care of you?” I questioned.
“The butler,” Olivia volleyed back.
“Is the butler going to tuck you in at night?” I returned.
Pause. “Well… I can Snapchat you,” she said slyly.
“So… from now on I don’t need to lie down with you when I tuck you in? I can just set my cell phone right here on the pillow?” I tested.
“I’m not President yet,” she reminded me.
Fair enough. I’d rather have all our bedtime tuck-ins than a new house, anyway.