If yesterday’s election taught me anything about my daughter, it was that American politics has a stimulating effect on her bowels. Let me explain. We attended an election party on Tuesday night but, just after the Democrats claimed Ohio, Ayla signaled her readiness for bed. As much I want her to care about the political process, I could tell that she’d had enough of Anderson Cooper's mug and crowd scenes at Grants Park.
So we woke up to the news that America had elected Barack Obama—the first black President of the United States. It was right there in my New York Times daily digest: “Obama elected President as racial barrier falls.” In celebration, I stripped off Ayla’s diaper (she loves being diaper-free) and I swung her around in circles chanting “Yes we did!” I finally put her down, smiling and cooing, to turn on the television. Watching the scenes from Obama’s acceptance speech was stirring—I cried and then turned to check on Ayla—and noticed that a different part of her had been stirred up—her bowels! There she was, sitting gloriously in a pile of her poop, touching the Playdoh-like substance that had magically appeared for her touching pleasure.
I frantically grabbed paper towels, Wet-Wipes and disinfectant and cleaned the floor and then hauled Ayla into the bathtub for a thorough washing. We returned to the living room just in time to hear Maya Angelou recite the words to her much celebrated poem—I Rise. On an ordinary day, listening to her recite poetry is magic. But today, given the context of what had just happened, the poem took on new meaning. This time, I could hear the inevitability of the poem’s message—sooner or later, people always rise to claim justice, truth and equality.
As the tears fell liberally down my cheeks, Ayla began to speak. She let out a soft squeal—and I was certain that she and I were in perfect harmony, both awash in emotion. But when I turned to hug her, I realized that her bowels had stirred again. This time she sat in a large, greenish puddle and was playfully tracing shapes in it with her fingertips.
Ayla has the uncanny ability to bring out four or six or eight different emotions in me at once. On this historic morning, I laughed at the mess, cried for Obama’s victory, was repulsed by my daughter’s poop fiasco, mourned my inability to be in Chicago last night and yet, still felt utterly at peace.
The next time Ayla and I tune into Obama’s speeches, I’m going to bring a stack of diapers. Because now I know that Ayla—and her bowels—are deeply moved by the new President of the United States.
Comments