Back to the Future

We are watching a scurrilous anti-Obama ad put out by McCain, and having the old “Can he really pull if off?” conversation. Can a Black man, however talented, convince America to pick him over a befuddled, old, White coot?
Greg smiles and ruffles Robert’s dirty (in both senses) blond hair. He has that glint in his eye—that kingmaker, puppet-master, slightly megalomaniacal grin.
Greg: He could really do it, you know. I could help him make it happen.
Me: Hold you horses, Eleanor Shaw. Being President is not a good job. Very high pressure. You only get to sleep about 4 hours a night. (Well, I expect Bush gets a good nine, plus naps.)
Greg: It’s up to him.
Me (struggling): Yes. Of course.
Greg: Hey, Boy. Would you like to be president someday? Wouldn’t that be cool?
Rob: No. I want to be an astronaut. I’m going to invent a time machine and travel through a wormhole in the fourth dimension.
Greg: That sounds dangerous.
Me: But it’s up to him.
Greg (struggling): Of course.
Rob: (Jumping on the sofa). Look, I’m going into hyperspace!
Me: Hey! Stop jumping on the sofa.
Rob: Why?
Me: Remember the rule. First, do what Mummy says, then ask why.
Rob: Why?
Me: Because it’s bad for the sofa.
Rob: But why do I have to stop then ask why?
Me: Because your life could be in danger.
Rob: Jumping on the sofa isn’t dangerous.
Me: It might be. That sofa is from Ikea.
More back and forth until finally I say:
Me: You can climb on the furniture when you go to college and have your own apartment.
Greg: But he’s going to live at home during college, aren’t you Bud?
Me: What if he wants to go to college in California?
Greg: We’ll move.
Rob: When I invent my time machine, I’m going to bring a cell phone so you can call me. And when I go back in time I’m going to call you very often.
Greg: That’s what you say now.
Me: Who are you, Grandma? (Pictured here in full floral glory.)