Growing Pains

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Those who have sent a child off to kindergarten or are about to embark on this journey can relate to my melancholy and nostalgia tonight. It began when I opened my laptop at work this morning. The default site for my Internet browser is my district’s website. A seemingly innocent choice, but today, much to my sorrow, the district had posted the dates and times for kindergarten round up.

I’ve known this day was coming for quite a while. Reminders keep popping up in the most unexpected places that my little boy is going to be “school-aged” next year. First, it was Target, where we had to abandon the comfort of racecar jammies and Sesame Street shirts and move across the aisle to the size 4-6x racks. I shed more than a few tears over the fact that there will be no more puppy dog-themed outfits, but that I will now have to buy clothing covered in skulls and cross bones (he’s going to kindergarten, not joining Hell’s Angels for crying out loud).

While gathering ideas for our family vacation this summer, I was looking up information on a popular theme park. As I scanned the admission prices, I noticed that by summer R will no longer be four and under. More tears.

Outgrown car seats, the end of the pages in the baby book, and moving up on the dosage table on the back of the Children’s Tylenol box; all signs that I should have heeded, yet I was still caught off guard by that screen this morning.

I’m excited for R. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s ready for the challenges of kindergarten, and I look forward to watching him go from preschooler to elementary student, but I’m also wistful for the years that are now behind us.

A couple of months ago, I was cleaning out an envelope of old papers that had been stuffed in the trunk in our bedroom and forgotten. I came across an old piece of notebook paper from the winter that R was two. Hastily scrawled across the page were funny things he had said or done that year. Here are just a few of my favorites:

One night we were sitting in the living room after work and daycare, playing before dinner. R turned to me out of the blue and said, “You’re a feisty girl.”

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Before bedtime one evening, R was really wound up. He had been talking and chattering for almost an hour non-stop. Suddenly, he became very quiet. I asked him what was wrong. “I think my mouth needs to take a rest,” he said.

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Not long after he was potty trained, R was at daycare when he told his daycare lady that something in his pants “hurt.” Concerned, she checked out the “situation” and found that it was caught in the waistband of his underwear. She fixed the problem and turned around just in time to hear R say, “Ahhh! Better.”

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One day while we were playing outside, R climbed inside his red, blue, and yellow Little Tikes car and announced to me that he was “going to the grocery store.” He proceeded to drive the car to the end of our driveway, then turned around and drove back to the top. As he climbed out of the car, he said, “Hi mom! I’m home from work as a doctor.”

During a recent baby shower I attended, the guests were asked to write a piece of advice for the new mother-to-be. I noticed that one of the guests had written this: “The days are long, but the years are short.” Truer words were never spoken.

Veggie Tales

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Dinnertime. A part of my day that I have come to simultaneously anticipate and dread. On the one hand, I love the image I have created in my mind of the four of us gathered around the table, trading accounts of our day. R smiles and asks if someone can please pass the steamed carrots. J compliments the seasoning on the tilapia, and the baby coos sweetly from her high chair and patiently waits for a refill of her sippy cup. Norman Rockwell took his inspiration from my vision of the perfect family dinner. Unfortunately, when humans replace paint strokes, things have a way of turning out differently.

First, there is the dilemma of what to fix. The tastes in our household are varied. I love foods of different colors. Fajitas with red, yellow, and green peppers, salads with tomatoes, avocados, and feta cheese, broccoli in my soup, and blueberries in my oatmeal. At least two of the people in my house seem to be going through a yellow, brown, and white phase, meaning if it isn’t one of those three colors, you can forget about it. J prefers meat at every meal, while I would be happy with the occasional piece of turkey or chicken. The sight of raw hamburger makes me want to gag, but I love seafood, which J has never developed a taste for. As I survey the refrigerator each night, I get a glimpse into what it must be like to be the leader of the free world. The balance of world peace lies in this one decision. Once made, some will be overjoyed, and others will revolt.

I refuse to make multiple meals to appease the masses. In the short term, this would probably be a viable solution, but do I really want to live the rest of my existence as a short-order chef? Instead, we have established some rules for dinnertime:

1.     No one has to eat anything they don’t like for dinner. If you don’t like dinner, breakfast is in 12 hours.

2.     If you don’t take at least one bite of everything on your plate, and eat a pre-determined number of vegetables, don’t ask for an after-dinner treat. If you’re hungry enough for cookies, you’re hungry enough to eat your asparagus.

3.     If you whine, cry or disrupt other people’s dinner, you will be asked to leave the table. (My husband has only had to leave the table once on fish night.)

4.     If you choose not to eat, you will remain at the table until the family is finished eating. (I’m going to have my Rockwell moment, dammit!)

On a positive note, my son has become a master negotiator. He’ll see your three bites of peas and raise you two graham crackers. (Maybe someday when he’s a government diplomat, he will recount the many dinners of his childhood and dedicate his memoirs to me.)

A couple of weeks ago, my mom served broccoli for dinner at her house. R solemnly announced to her that he only eats the “hairy” pieces. Confused, she finally realized that he prefers the tops of the broccoli and not the stems.

Another time, after I referred him to Rule #2, he wailed, “But I’m only hungry for things that aren’t good for me!”

K has recently decided to get in on the fun. I noticed the other day that she was methodically picking through the pieces of food that were not to her liking and throwing them off of her tray. I said her name (in a stern tone) and shook my head no. She looked at me, grabbed another handful, chucked it off the high chair and shook her head right back. How do I argue with that?

While art history books praise Old Norm’s (can I call him Old Norm?) portrayal of realistic images of family life, I have my doubts. For example, none of his paintings depict whining children shooting peas out of their nostrils and smearing ranch dressing in their brother’s hair. The mother is always smiling, while the father looks adoringly upon his well-behaved brood. The vegetables in the middle of the table are described as “nature’s bounty,” not as “eewy,” and no one appears to be banging an empty sippy cup against their head. The white tablecloth is spotless, as if it hasn’t been sitting in that morning’s spilled cranberry juice for 8 hours. I just don’t buy it.

Love, Guilt, and the PTA

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Mothers of my generation face a unique predicament. Having watched and/or studied the struggles of our foremothers to carve a place for themselves outside of the kitchens and laundry rooms, to trade house dresses for pinstripes (remember Dress for Success and giant shoulder pads?), and grilled cheese sandwiches for work luncheons, we feel compelled to prove that we too can have successful and fulfilling careers. On the other hand, many of us (my cohort group here is female friends and family members) either secretly or outwardly feel guilty about putting our children in daycare 8 hours per day while we earn a paycheck.

I don’t think stay-at-home moms are immune to mommy guilt either. Even when I’m home with the kids during the summer, I worry that I’m not playing with them enough, that they’re bored, that I should spend more “quality” time with them, do educational activities like reciting works of Shakespeare and creating dioramas of the world’s various habitats out of shoe boxes and construction paper.

We all know (or have heard about) selfish mothers. The ones who use the grocery money to buy crack, and allow their toddlers to wander the streets at will. But most of the women I know do not fit into this category. Instead, we overcompensate. If we took a poll, I’m willing to bet that more than a few of us have found ourselves frosting cookies or cupcakes to look like clowns/cute animals/holiday decorations at 2 in the morning for a classroom party the next day. How many mothers do you know who are up early on Halloween to put the finishing touches on the costumes? And mom is almost always the last person in bed on Christmas Eve.

Where did we learn this? Probably from our own mothers. I can clearly picture my mom staying up until all hours of the night before a junior high school dance to finish sewing my dress together because nothing in the store fit my exact specifications of 7^th-grade fashion. She sat through my sister’s 3-hour dance recitals, arriving an hour early to get good seats, and spent several blistering summers learning baseball lingo so she could cheer on my brother’s team (and my mom doesn’t even LIKE baseball). Mothers make sacrifices, not because they feel guilty, but because they love their children. And we do it gladly. Check the manual; it’s in the job description.

Maybe I’m stereotyping here, and I apologize if there are exceptions, but fathers don’t seem to share the same guilt. I’m not suggesting fathers don’t love their children just as much as mothers and spend just as much time with them. If truth were told, J is much better at just sitting and playing with the kids than I am. I’m more of the planning, organizing, and executive function in our household. But when it’s time for fathers to take a break, they seem better able to do so without feeling the need to rush through to get home to the kids. We moms could learn a lot from their example.

A few weeks ago, I got strep throat for the first time since I was a kid (Note- Strep throat is either MUCH worse in your 30s, or I’m just a much bigger wimp than I was when I was 6). I was lying in bed thinking that I might die, but also going through the running list of things I SHOULD be doing instead of being sick. It was a weekend, so I was feeling guilty that I was missing out on precious non-working hours with the kids. This experience got me to thinking.

Moms get tired, and sometimes we get sick, and sometimes we just want to lie on the couch and read a book. It’s okay for kids to learn to play alone and to sometimes be bored. (If I recall, the best games, plays, forts and costumes happened when adults weren’t involved.)

So my resolution for this year is to try to feel less guilt when I spend time working out (that’s my other resolution) instead of going to pick the kids up right after school. I also want to reconnect with my girlfriends who I extraordinarily miss. Most of them have their own children and guilt, or will very soon so it’s a challenge for us to get together. But we need to laugh and drink wine before we aren’t allowed to imbibe because the alcohol will react badly with our blood pressure medications.

I also want to practice being. Being is the state of consciously doing one thing at a time, something at which fathers excel (I meant that as a compliment in case it didn’t come across that way). If J is watching TV, he watches TV. If he’s playing with the kids, he’s playing with the kids, and so on. Conversely, if I’m watching TV, I’m also checking my e-mail, attempting some new project that will not be recognizable when placed next to the picture I saw of it on Pinterest, or making a grocery list. Often, when I’m playing with the kids, I get up in the middle to check on dinner or straighten up the living room. My goal this year is to enjoy whatever it is that I’m doing in the moment instead of constantly thinking ahead to the next thing that needs to be done or what we can do next with the kids.

German poet and playwright Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, “Nothing is worth more than this day.” Maybe he was on to something. Happy 2013!

Birds, Bees, and Bunnies

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During my pregnancy with K, I braced myself for questions from our then three-year-old regarding all things baby, including how she got in there, and how she was going to get out. My training as a counselor has greatly influenced my parenting style in that I try to be open to any topic R brings up for discussion, but also to limit my answers to what is appropriate for his age and development at that time. He seemed to accept our explanations to all of his questions about his baby sister. (Although, when K was in the middle of a crying fit when she was two weeks old, he asked if we could “put her back,” so he might need some clarification on things in the future.)

When we enrolled R in preschool last spring, the preschool teacher had just adopted two rabbits to keep in the classroom. “What a wonderful way for the kids to learn about responsibility and nature,” I naively thought at the time.

In the fall, R came home and proudly announced that the momma bunny was expecting. Delivery day was anxiously anticipated, and R was excited to show us the balls of fluff that resulted.

Then, a few weeks ago (and months after said bunnies were born), out of the blue, R and I had the following conversation:

R:  Mom, how do babies get made?

Me: We’ve talked about this, remember? When a mom and dad love each other, their love makes a baby, and then the baby grows in the mom’s stomach until it’s ready to be born.

R: Oh yeah.

Me (Cautiously): Why did you want to know?

R: Miss C said that we have to get a new house for the dad bunny because the way to get more baby bunnies is to put the dad bunny and the momma bunny in the same house. And we don’t want any more bunnies. We only want this much bunnies. (Holds up eight fingers for emphasis.)

Made sense to me. This conversation seemed to go so well for Miss C that I’m already looking toward the future when the questions get harder and more insistent. Anyone know where I can get some bunnies when he’s about 13?

The Rollercoaster

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When I became a mother, I also became a worrier. The first night we brought R home from the hospital, I insisted that we stay up and take turns watching the baby sleep. My husband, still riding the wave of new-father euphoria smiled indulgently at his crazy, sleep-deprived wife and obliged. Twenty-four hours later, euphoria had faded, replaced by the desperation of a man who hadn’t slept or showered in three days. He reminded me that this was a completely unsustainable practice, much like the time that, as a newly wed bride, I vowed to prepare home-cooked meals each night.

For months afterward, I would wake in a panic and peer over the side of R’s crib. I would lean closer and closer until I could see his little chest moving up and down beneath his footie pajamas. If I didn’t hear the soft sounds of his breath right away, I might tap his foot or jostle his tiny arm. Looking back, this is probably why he didn’t sleep through the night consistently until he was almost one.

The first time I had to leave R or K with a care provider, who was not a member of our immediate families, I experienced what I imagine a panic attack would be like. It felt so unnatural to be leaving the most valuable entities I had in my possession with people that I had only conversed with a handful of times. I worried about falls, burns, choking, illness, abduction, car accidents, emotional trauma, abuse, poisoning, home invasions, unsecured firearms lurking in bedroom closets, second-hand smoke, attacks by dogs and wild animals, bullying by other children, drowning, fires, tornados, nuclear accidents, and tsunamis (we live in a land-locked state).

I subscribed to the saying, “Worrying works. 90% of the things I worry about never happen.” I figured if I could worry about it enough, I could prevent tragedy, and by extension, shield my heart from all that that would mean.

Anyone who is a parent can attest to the blind panic that often accompanies parenthood. The first time R bolted away from me in a crowded store, in the 60 seconds it took to reestablish visual contact with him, I found myself frantically thinking about what he was wearing so that I could describe it to law enforcement officers, and mentally penning desperate pleas to would-be kidnappers.

Another time, having fallen six feet from a piece of playground equipment and hit his head on a metal bar on the way down, I was preparing to rush R to the emergency room when I wiped away the copious amount of blood coming from his mouth to find a small cut. (It turns out the mouth bleeds more than other parts of the body. Who knew?)

During the swine flu scare a couple of years ago, I poured over the accounts of symptoms and the stories of small children stricken by the virus who lost their lives. I worried myself sick over every runny nose or fever that spring.

In light of recent events in the community and country, I find myself feeling more anxious than ever. From discussions I’ve had with friends and co-workers in recent days, I know that I’m not alone. For me, the most unsettling part of stories like these is that regardless of whether we move our children to nice, “safe” communities, get them annual flu shots, lock up poisonous chemicals in our houses, and are hyper vigilant about screening daycare providers, bad things can still happen. The uncertainty of being able to ensure the safety of what most parents consider to be the most precious resource the world will ever know is downright scary. It means that our hearts are vulnerable to chance occurrences, completely exposed to the whims of nature or strangers.

If anything positive has come out of the terrible stories and images that have been flashing across TV screens for the past week, it’s that we have had a lot of extra hugs, snuggles, books read, and “I love yous” in our house recently. The other night, as I was rocking K to sleep, I found myself marveling at the perfectly formed curls that rest just at the top of the neck of her pajamas on the back of her head. I have been really listening to R’s stories from preschool this week, instead of occasionally throwing in a distracted “mmm-hmm.” And let me tell you, I’ve learned so much about preschool socio-political issues. I had no idea Pre-K was such a jungle.

I’ll still insist on hand-holding when streets are crossed, having Highway Patrol inspected car seats, and I dread the day when I have to hand over a set of car keys to either of my children. The bottom line is that parenthood is terrifying a lot of the time, but I don’t know many parents who would trade the experience. I think this conversation from the 1989 movie Parenthood sums it up best:

Grandma: You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.
Gil: Oh?
Grandma: Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!
Gil: What a great story.
Grandma: I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.

What a perfect analogy for what it means to be a parent.

Is there a doctor in the house?

I’m no math whiz, but there’s one equation of which I am certain. Take the number of children residing in one household and multiply by the number of hours each spends in daycare/preschool/school in a week. Divide by the number of weeks in a year, and multiply by the number of other children who share said classrooms, hallways, bathrooms and drinking fountains. The resulting number is roughly equal to the number of times you will answer your phone in the middle of a work day to hear the words every mother dreads. “Your child just threw up.”

Since the beginning of September, a week hasn’t gone by when someone in our house hasn’t been sick or injured. Between colds, fevers, stomach viruses, bruises and gashes, I’m starting to think it might be cheaper to just hire a doctor to live with us full-time than to pay the office copay. When the receptionist asks your child how last week’s art project turned out, you begin to wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered onto an episode of House.

Vomit doesn’t bother me the way that it does some. As a mother and former teacher, I’ve dealt with every color, odor, consistency, and volume out there. The first time R got a stomach bug as a baby, my husband picked him up from daycare and took him home for the day. When I arrived home from work, the house was eerily quiet. As I turned the corner into the living room, the sight that met my eyes was comical really (this is one of those things that’s easier to laugh about in retrospect). J and R were resting peacefully in the recliner, while every two feet or so from the kitchen to the front door lay cloth burp rags. Puzzled, I woke J to ask what was up. It seems that R wouldn’t stop puking, and J didn’t know what to do with all that vomit. So he covered each puddle over with a burp rag so that it could be dealt with when I got home. Thanks dear.

A couple of months ago, R woke on a school day morning complaining of a stomachache. Since this isn’t a terribly rare occurrence at our house, and since he ate almost all of his breakfast without a hitch and didn’t have a fever, I felt good about sending him on to school for the day. After lunch, the preschool director called to say that R was lying lethargically on the end of the playground slide, so she took his temperature. 102 degrees. Mother-of-the-year right here.

After I retrieved my ailing child, I decided to stop at Walgreens for some children’s Ibuprofen on the way home. R wrapped his hot little arms around my neck as we proceeded to the back of the store. (Side note- Why is it that pharmacies are always at the back of the store? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have them at the front so that people who aren’t feeling well don’t have as far to go? It would also cut down on the number of other shoppers they could potentially infect as they puff and hack their way down the aisles.) We had located the Ibuprofen, made it through the check out line, and were carrying our plunder back to the car. I was feeling confident that we were home free. I set R down in front of me while I unlocked the car doors. He swayed feverishly from side-to-side. I looked into his glassy eyes, and I knew. “Mom, I have to­—“ The words were still hanging in the air when the first wave of vomit hit my shoes. I attempted to quickly spin him around toward the empty pavement, but instead succeeded in hosing the front tire of the van parked beside us (apologies to the driver of the light blue late 90s model Ford Windstar parked at Walgreens that day). I looked around to see if there were witnesses, removed my vomit-covered shoes with as much dignity as possible, peeled R’s shirt off and got the heck out of there.

While R broke us into the joys of parenthood and bodily fluids, K has attempted to outdo any records he may have set by being the first of the two to only make it 20 minutes into a workday before vomiting. I had literally just removed my coat and sat down at my desk when the daycare provider called with the bad news. She started the conversation by asking if K had eaten something orange for breakfast. That’s never a good sign.

K also has the market cornered on most terrifying medical emergencies. We went out for pizza with my in-laws and niece on Halloween before taking the kids trick-or-treating. I was watching R and his cousin enjoying each other’s company when I noticed that K had a strange expression on her face. I had given her some diced peaches to eat while we waited for our pizza. K is what we call in our house an “enthusiastic” eater. When given a food that she enjoys, she doesn’t delicately select one piece at time, place it on her palate, and chew thoroughly while allowing the flavor to flood her taste buds before swallowing. No, she’s more of a shovel-it-in-and-swallow-it-whole kind of eater.

As I continued to watch her, it became clear to me that the expression in her eyes was one of panic. I had seen it on the faces of people who can’t swim and have suddenly been thrown into deep water. It suddenly occurred to me that she couldn’t breathe. Panicked, I yanked her up out of her seat and flipped her upside down over my thigh while slapping her back with my hand. I fleetingly wondered if I was hitting her too hard and hurting her, but in that moment, my fear that she wasn’t breathing outweighed any others. After what seemed like a century, but was probably mere seconds, she started screaming and a cube of slimy peach came flying out. I was so incredibly relieved that I didn’t even notice the trail of slobber and snot that stretched from my pant leg up to the shoulder of my sweater where she rested her head and wailed at the injustice of being treated so indelicately. I now completely understand where the expression, “You’re taking years off my life” came from. I aged 10 years in 60 seconds.

I think the past three months have desensitized me to illness and injury though. Last week, after telling R 15 times to stop running and leaping into the recliner (he likes it when it expels him backward), I watched as he sprinted toward it, but instead of being thrown backward, he hit his head on the solid wood arm rest of the couch. The THUNK that followed resonated through the living room. His head bounced off the armrest, onto the couch cushion and finally came to rest on the floor. It was kind of like watching a pinball machine. He lay there, stunned, but finally came up holding his hand over a growing lump on his forehead. (Think Yosemite Sam after Bugs Bunny hits him over the head with a mallet.) He cried, I comforted, and tried to refrain from saying, “See what happens when you don’t listen to your mother?” In the end, he kept ice on his head for 10 minutes and was fine. And I only checked to make sure his pupils were dilating properly once. Hey, for me it’s progress.  

This Land is Their Land

This blog is not political in nature, and I like it that way. Those who know me well already know which way I tend to lean (although, if I’m honest, it’s more of a complete slope). This blog exists to keep a record for my children of their lives growing up and acts as mommy therapy for me. However, on the eve following one of the most contentious elections in modern U.S. history, I can’t help but look at the outcome of this election from a mother’s point of view.

Listening to presidential candidates in the months leading up to Election Day brings to mind the first few dates of a new relationship. Your date is trying his best to impress you with his wit, hygiene and table manners. You think to yourself, “This is the perfect man!” You give him your vote. Fast-forward six months into the future, and dates involve a drive-thru dollar menu and deodorant has become optional.

We the people exercise an enormous amount of faith when voting for any candidate. We hold candidates to their word that they will perform the way they have promised. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t, but most often the proverbial red tape gets in the way, frustrating voters and constipating the system once again.

This election year, I thought a lot about what I wanted in a president for my children, and here is the list I came up with:

1)   I want a president who cares more about people than about the bottom line. We instill in children the importance of treating others with kindness, respect, and dignity regardless of who they are. Unfortunately, we adults rarely model these same principles. Our most vulnerable citizens (children, the elderly, the mentally ill, individuals with disabilities, and battered women) are often the first to suffer due to cuts in funding to programs they depend on for their every day existence. There is evidence that even the most primitive of cultures provided for these individuals’ needs. Today, we reward greed by distributing more resources to those who already have the ability to give themselves millions of dollars in year-end bonuses. In the words of my preschooler, “That’s not fair.”

2)   I want a president who makes me proud to live in this country and to raise my children here. And I want the leader of the country I live in to have the respect and admiration of other leaders around the world. I want R and K to know that they are blessed to live in a country where our tax money can provide them with clean drinking water, the right to a free education, and the privilege to vote because those things are not a reality in many parts of the world. But I also want them to understand that the lives of individuals not afforded these rights are every bit as valuable as their own. They just happened to be born into different circumstances.

3)   For my children, I want a president who understands the difference between leading with confidence and leading with arrogance. I want my kids to know that using fear to influence policy decisions is not leadership at all. Hasty, impassioned decisions rarely end well. I want to know that our Commander-in-Chief exhausts every option available before sending troops to war. I don’t know any mother in the world who thinks war is a great idea because every mother sees her own children in those soldiers. No mother would wish the pain of losing a child on another woman.

4)   I hope that my children have a president who understands the importance of compromise and unity. The media reports that not since the Civil War has the country been so divided on so many issues. This election is an opportunity for the leaders and the citizens of this country to put aside party differences and agree that we all want the same things in the end. We want strong futures for our children and grandchildren, and we want to be able to honestly tell them, “If you work hard, you will have the opportunity to go to school, to be a homeowner, to own your own business, or to enjoy your retirement when the time comes.”

5)   I want R and K to understand that getting to the top doesn’t have to be at the expense of others. I was watching team rock-climbing this summer while I tried to get the baby down for a nap, and I was amazed at the system they used to ensure that both climbers reached the top safely. It appeared that both were tethered to the same rope. One climber would make his way up the rope while the other waited. Once the first climber reached his destination, he would unhook part of the climbing apparatus and hand it back to the second climber, thus ensuring his safe ascent. The second climber would return the favor when he caught up to his fellow climber. Everyone has had some help getting to where they are today, whether that was supportive parents, a caring teacher, or a federal student loan. Wouldn’t it be great if we could start passing the rope back?

6)   My wish for a president for my children is that they will have a leader who values their rights as individuals. I want R and K to understand that it’s okay to have their own moral standards and guidelines, and that they should follow their own consciences, but that it’s not okay to impose their moral framework on others. I also want a president who understands that there is a lot more gray area than black and white in most situations. I hope that mine and other children will not be discriminated against due to gender or the gender of the person they choose to spend their life with someday. I hope that both of my children always retain the right to make decisions about their own healthcare, guided by their own moral compasses.

I’m sure I could think of additional qualities (nice teeth, a melodic voice for making long speeches bearable, and the use of proper grammar) that I appreciate in a president, but I will end here. Regardless of whether you’re feeling hopeful or disappointed tonight, the world will keep spinning. The country now begins the task of learning to work together. From the annals of preschool wisdom comes an appropriate quote as we move forward. “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.”