By Shannon Magsam, Ladybug’s mama

Well, it seems when Ladybug’s elementary school had a mock presidential election, “Rock” Obama emerged the victor. That’s what Ladybug said anyway.

I found it interesting how much she had gleaned from conversations at school. I know a lot of parents discuss their political leanings with their 6-year-olds, but our conversations had been mostly bipartisan. We discussed how important it is to vote – how women weren’t always allowed to vote — but I didn’t think it was necessary to worry her about who may or may not win the presidency. Apparently many parents do discuss politics at the dinner table. Ladybug came home Tuesday talking about “Rock” Obama and John McCain. She voted for McCain because, as she put it, he likes Jazz and adopted 17 kids.

She said “Rock” only cared about rich people.

“Who told you that?” I asked, surprised.

“No one,” she said mysteriously.

We told her neither candidate was just for the “rich.” Later Tuesday night she was transfixed by the election coverage on television. Every time a newscaster uttered McCain’s name, she acted like she knew him personally. She had lots of questions about the election process. Her father and I got to tell her that we’d spent two hours casting our ballots earlier Tuesday because we went to the wrong polling place first (I would have sworn it was the other church), but it was very important that we exercise our right to vote. While I checked my e-mail at the kitchen table, Ladybug yelled out: “John McCain winned?!”

Her dad had to explain that he won South Carolina, not the whole election.

While keeping her eyes glued to the t.v., Ladybug was steadily dressing a baby doll in toilet paper (the baby looked like she was headed to a toga party). At one point there was a great cheer on the television and Ladybug lifted up the doll and yelled, “The baby won! The baby is the new president! The baby says everybody has to speak a new language: Goo-goo, ga-ga.” M’kay.

Then she got serious again. She and her father got into a discussion about how votes are counted. After a while, he jokingly asked her, “If mom and I were running for election, who would you vote for?”

“I would do two votes,” she said thoughtfully, diplomatically.

Maybe it’s good we started the conversations now — I think she might have a future in politics.

By Shannon Magsam

The grown-ups in this house don’t get out much. We talk about a date night, but it seems we’re all talk and no action. I know you understand. And I know you’ll also understand what happened when those grown-ups finally did break the chain to flee an hour away for dinner.

It was over the weekend. Ladybug’s first sleepover away. The plan was for her to be picked up at 6 p.m. on Saturday, go to a kids’ Halloween party then head over to her friend’s house for some jewelry-making, pizza rolls and general girlie fun. All day Saturday we had the count-down, the one parents hate and try to avoid at all costs. “How many more minutes?” she kept asking. “More like HOURS, Ladybug,” I told her, but that didn’t help. In desperation, we decided to leave the house for a while. We hit the pet store (where a wolf/dog tried to eat a small Yorkie dressed as a princess), Lewis & Clark and Worlds Underwater for a new balloon-bellied Molly fish.

By 5 p.m. Ladybug was manically riding her bicycle around the cul-de-sac (did you know she just learned to ride without training wheels? No? Remind me to tell you about it). Of course, they were late. By the time they came in, we took pictures of the girls in their Halloween costumes and they left, I was ready to just sit down and stare at a wall. So I did.

Then from the huz: “Are you ready?!” Just when I thought I’d much rather dive under the couch, I suddenly, somewhere, felt the tremor of a date vibe. Or at least a small tingle. I quickly changed clothes, added a little lipstick and said I was ready to go. We talked non-stop to Bentonville until I suddenly remembered something I’d forgotten: my cell phone. How the heck did people with kids exist without cell phones? I went from relaxed, flirtatious wife to anxiety-ridden mama in a matter of seconds. What if the sleepover mom needed to call me? What if there was an accident? My husband asked if I wanted to go back and get the phone.

“No,” I said without conviction. Then I said it again with confidence. I figured I’d bum a phone from someone at the restaurant and at least let the mom know I didn’t have the phone if she tried to call. And that’s what I did (thanks, complete stranger Derek who doesn’t have kids but was totally indulgent anyway). As we sat down, I tried to continue the happy banter my husband and I had started in the car. It fell flat. I wasn’t able to relax, even though I was telling myself I was being ridiculous (in my head). I looked over the menu, but couldn’t read the words for the thoughts swirling in my head. The cell phone is like an invisible cord between my daughter and me anytime we’re not together.

Suddenly a happy thought occurred to me.

“She’s a nurse!” I said with a smile. I meant the friend’s mom. It suddenly made me feel better to know Ladybug would be in capable, nurse’s hands.

I was finally able to read the menu in peace so I made my dinner choice and sat back to enjoy my husband and my iced tea. After a few minutes I decided to use the restroom. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw a blonde, blue-eyed little girl about Ladybug’s age. I started praying again. I knew it was ridiculous to get so worked up, but I couldn’t seem to shake the mood.

I came back to the table in a funk.

“I should have turned around and gotten the phone,” my husband said with a sigh.

I considered his statement and said brightly, “Well, maybe when dinner’s over we could just swing by the house and get the phone. Then we could go somewhere else close to home.”

By then, dinner was over.

Yay for date night.

*Ladybug fairy courtesy of A Kid’s Heart

By Shannon Magsam, Ladybug’s mama

Well, my little (33-year-old) brother just tied the knot. I drove down a few days early to help with the preparations, which were extensive since A) the wedding was outdoors in a non-wedding setting; and B) My precious decorate-it-to-the-hilt younger sister was involved. It took us three days, but it was beautiful.

The day before the wedding, we hustled past the groom with roses and tulle and bows. My brother, looking genuinely bewildered, said, “I just thought we’d mow the lawn and put up an arch or something.”

We glared.

“You’re such a … man,” I sputtered, turning on my heel to finish the guest favors.

We finally pulled everything together Saturday in enough time to get dressed before guests arrived.

Ladybug and my two nieces served as flower girls. They carried out their duty with small, ladylike steps. They were so solemn it was funny.

My new sister-in-law, Jen, was gorgeous and my brother quite handsome.

I cried, of course. This was my little brother, after all.

The crying reminded me of a passage in a book I just read by author Anne Roiphe. She wrote this very well-put few paragraphs in Married: A Fine Predicament:

“A wedding is the one place where joy is guaranteed and many people can’t help crying. This tincture of sadness in the midst of a happy occasion is an interesting matter. Of all the people who might be wiping tears from their eyes, no two are probably shedding them for exactly the same reasons. A different phrase of the liturgy, when the bride enters or the groom fumbles to find the ring, or the flower girl stumbles on her way down the central aisle, can begin a sniffling in the audience, a clogging of the nose of the mother of the bride, a mist on the eyeglasses of the father of the groom and a choking sobbing sound coming from the new acquaintance of the family who was just invited at the last minute.

“These mysterious but common tears seem to flow from the intensity of emotion but more likely they spring from some fountain of self-pity. ‘I once had a moment as pure as this and look where I have come.’ These are tears for lost youth, lost love, lost grace, for the time in one’s life when everything lay before one and the real endurance tests were waiting silently in the wings.”

(OK, so it’s a little bit of a downer, but I like the poetry of it.) In my mind, I offered Chad and Jen a toast:

“Here’s to running those endurance tests and coming out stronger, together. Here’s to love, grace and the ability to forgive. And many layers of happiness.”

I just talked to him today. He called on his way home from work just to chat with his big sister and catch up since the honeymoon. He admitted to enjoying the phrase, “My wife.”

Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he broke off and said with a smile in his voice: “Well, there’s my wife now. I better go see what she’s up to!”

He was mentally off the phone with me and in her arms.

“I love you!” I called out. But he had already hung up.

To baby brothers and the women who love them. Cheers.

“I hate you!” Ladybug announced and when I looked surprised by the outburst, she informed with me with a giggle: “It’s opposite day!”

Um-kay. Thanks for the advance warning. Opposite Day is one of her favorites, along with the ever-popular “Let’s Switch.” It’s much like Opposite Day, except it’s a specific kind of opposite: I’m the kid and she’s the mom. We did this one at the mall recently. And it came in the nick of time since, as the mom, I was about to banish her to a corner of the store in an extended version of time-out. In retrospect, she wasn’t really being that much of a pain, I just wasn’t being very tolerant. She IS getting close to 7, but still gets fidgety if I do too much clothes shopping. Unless, of course, we play a game.

So recently, while I searched fruitlessly for a new outfit, she suggested a game of Let’s Switch. I agreed, in hopes I could manipulate the situation to my advantage and look in at least one more store for that elusive outfit. She hurried me along to the next store and tsk-ed me when I dawdled (point taken). In a fit of empathy, she did, however, offer to buy me a new outfit for “school”. She even helped me pick out some (purple and red) clothes. When I went to try them on, she made very serious faces and shook her head no when they didn’t look right. And they really didn’t. But I was able to sneak in a few items that I really did want to try on (which had me somberly mouthing “no” to my reflection in the mirror.)

Then, in a move that had me laughing uproariously — on the inside — she asked very earnestly in a stage whisper: “Are you gonna make me drive the car home?”