“I’m going to be the President of the United States when I grow up,” my granddaughter states matter-of-factly. I’m impressed, because when I was her age I wanted to be a giraffe.
"Why would you want to be President?" I ask.
“Because I want to make laws that are fair to everyone. I want to be the first woman President and live in the Whitehouse.”
I hate to burst her bubble, but I tell her that there is no way the President can make everyone happy. The President is lucky to make anyone happy. That doesn’t seem to faze her. She’s confident everyone would love her policies.
“But by the time you’re old enough, there will already have been a woman President,” I reason.
“That’s good!” she says.
“But you could live in a white house,” I mutter.
“Nope,” she insists, “I’m going to live in the Whitehouse!”
I feel guilty for playing the devil’s advocate. But she seems to have a pretty strong bubble around her. Then she cocks her head to the side and asks, “Does the President need to be good at...