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SPOILERS:  Uh... general themes, maybe? 
DISCLAIMER:  Josh and Donna belong to Aaron.  Molly,
Evan, and Adira are ours. 
SUMMARY:  Welcome to the Mollyverse--It's 2007. 
THANKS:  To Morgan for all the graphical and
logistical help with the new site.  Have we mentioned
that you rock? 



The Benefits of Stamp Collecting
Jo March & Ryo Sen 




I used to have this fantasy. 

No, not the fantasy about Josh, whipped cream and the
infamous smoking jacket.  That fantasy came true five
years ago, which led directly to my disillusionment
over this other fantasy. 

The fantasy about having a daughter. 

And it was such a nice fantasy too. 

My fantasy daughter was such an agreeable child.  I'd
come home from a long day of work and there she'd be,
my adorable little moppet, looking up at me with those
big brown eyes, all ready for me to spend some quality
time with her.  She'd snuggle against me and listen
intently while I read her uplifting stories that would
develop her sense of self-esteem and teach her that
women can do anything. 

Yeah, bolster her self-esteem.  Since my daughter's
last name is Lyman, you can see where that part of the
fantasy turned out to be pretty much unnecessary,
can't you? 

Still, the fantasy persisted.  My daughter and I would
share the sorts of serious conversations I never had
with my own mother.  And my daughter--this unique
mixture of Joshua and Donnatella--would, of course,
occasionally utter these incredibly witty and
insightful comments. 

Okay, I got that part right.  The child's verbal
skills are, as you might guess, impressive.  Of
course, she does have these little flaws.  She has not
yet learned the value of discretion.  And the way her
father urges her on--his new favorite way of relaxing
(excluding, of course, philateley) is to grab his
daughter and announce, "We're going to go mock people,
Molly"--she probably never will.  Also, she has a
strange idea of what constitutes "bad" words.  Take
our attempt at d�tente last month: Having realized
that Sam isn't getting over his Ainsley fixation any
time soon, we gritted our teeth and invited the two of
them to dinner.  Ainsley made the requisite cooing
noises over what a cutie Molly is--which, okay, was
winning her some brownie points.  But inevitably the
conversation turned to politics, and everything went
to hell. 

The capper came when Ainsley mentioned her party
affiliation in passing, and my daughter gasped. 
Pointing (and how many times have I told her not to do
that at the dinner table?), Molly piped up in her
four-year-old's voice, "Mommy!  Sam's sex kitten just
used the R word!" 

At least Josh found it amusing. 

Okay, Josh found it downright hysterical. 

But my point here is that, in my fantasy, I had this
undemanding, perfectly behaved, restful child.  And as
Josh's mother has pointed out many times, a woman who
wants restful children should perhaps avoid Lyman
sperm. 

Now she tells me. 

Of course, the truth is that I would not trade Molly
Jordan Moss-Lyman for the most restful child on the
face of the planet.  Molly, who Josh refers to as his
miniature Donnatella because she inherited my blonde
hair and pale skin but whose most distinguished
feature is undoubtedly those warm brown eyes.  Molly,
who speaks her mind and who's going to go right on
doing so as long as I am her mother.  (However, we are
trying to teach her the value of tact, not to mention
the art of apology, which I'm thinking is a skill she
should acquire ASAP.  We started, I should add, with a
nicely worded note to Ainsley, which mostly consisted
of Molly and me laying all the blame on Josh for
repeating the old sex kitten story one night when he
was unaware that his daughter was eavesdropping.) 
Molly, whose command of the English language puts her
preschool playmates to shame. 

Although I'm still recovering from the day her teacher
informed me about that Molly had used the word
"philately" in class.  You see, coming out of her
four-year-old mouth, it really *does* sound like-- 

Never mind. 

The point is that Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman is not the
child of my fantasies.  She's a living, breathing
human being, and she's a hell of a lot more fun than
some restful, well-behaved moppet ever would be. 

Take this moment: It's been one hell of a week.  Josh
is running operations for Governor Susan
Douglas-Radford, D-PA.  Sure, we're talking midterm
elections, and technically Governor Douglas-Radford
isn't running for anything.  But in a few years she
will be.  Let's do a recap of contemporary politics
for those of you who haven't been paying attention,
shall we? 

2002--President Bartlet, despite the Healthgate
crisis, wins re-election. 

2006--Hoynes v. Baker.  Hoynes would have won if he'd
had the intelligence to listen to Josh.  Okay, I'm
prejudiced.  But still. Hoynes is narrowly defeated,
setting up every Democrat with presidential ambitions
(and there are a hell of a lot of those) as a
potential candidate in 2010.  Josh is inundated with
offers to serve as a campaign consultant before I've
had time to erase our personal files from the White
House computers.  After several weeks of careful
consideration, he decides to back Susan
Douglas-Radford.  So now it's 2007; Douglas-Radford is
up for re-election in 2008, after which she'll run for
the Democratic nomination in 2010. 

Me, Josh and two small children on a campaign bus.  I
can hardly wait. 

Seriously. 

*** 

I never considered myself typical in any regard. 
Brains?  I believe my SAT scores speak for themselves.
 Rugged good looks?  Well, I *do* have my own fan
club.  Charm?  I'm a politician; of course I'm
charming.  Hell, I even managed to marry my assistant,
weather a humiliating PR storm, and end up with an
incredibly satisfying marriage. 

Exceptional, yes.  Typical, not so much. 

Or at least, I never *was* typical. 

Even when my witty, gorgeous, and freakishly
intelligent wife got pregnant, I did not become some
shrieking, overprotective, boorish man.  (Donna, of
course, would say that I have always been shrieking,
overprotective, and boorish; she's wrong, though.  I
am a paragon of rationality, independence, and
courteousness.  Why does everyone laugh when I say
that?)  Anyway, when Donna was pregnant, I still spent
the majority of my time at the office.  Of course, my
deliciously pregnant wife worked with me, so it's not
like I couldn't be overprotective right there at the
office.  I sometimes indulged the urge to, in Donna's
words, fret over her like a fussbudget.  At which
point I promptly mocked her for using the word
"fussbudget." 

But all in all, I stayed the same old me--brilliant,
egotistical, and willing to concede that perhaps Donna
knew at least as much as I do about pregnancy and what
she could or could not do. 

Even when Donna went into labor, I stayed relatively
calm.  I was, of course, in Boston on a day trip with
CJ, Sam, and the President.  Toby called, sounding
distinctly uncomfortable, to tell me that Donna--right
before Margaret whisked her off to the hospital--left
strict orders that I was not to be bothered until I
got off the plane in D.C.  Sometimes Toby is
remarkably perceptive. 

Still, I stayed calm.  Sort of. 

Well, okay, CJ threatened to strangle me into
unconsciousness, and Sam offered to tie me to a seat
and gag me with one of Toby's rubber balls for the
duration of the short flight.  I told him he needed to
work out some of his latent BDSM fantasies.  He then
threatened to strangle me himself, and CJ rescued me
by getting Donna on the cellphone. 

Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman was born after nine
terrifying, excruciating, and--for someone as
squeamish as me--rather appalling hours of labor. 

And that's when it happened: I, Joshua Mateusz Lyman,
Esquire, became That Guy.  You know the one--he whips
out pictures of his kid at the slightest provocation,
tells annoying anecdotes about little Mary Sue
Wunderkid, and drives a four-year-old minivan. 

I couldn't help it, though.  I mean, nine months of
anticipation, and still it didn't sink in until I saw
her.  Six pounds of squalling, mop-topped, gorgeous,
little tiny person, and she was *my* daughter. 

Wow. 

I can't describe the immensity of that realization, or
the depth of gratitude and amazement I have reserved
for Donna, who grew this tiny half-Moss, half-Lyman
person; but if she had asked me to buy a minivan, I
would have done it. 

Well, okay, I probably wouldn't be caught dead in a
minivan.  After all, I do have a reputation to
safeguard.  And those gas-guzzling SUVs are not only
environmentally unfriendly, they're also downright
impractical in D.C.--I mean, have you ever tried to
parallel park one of those monstrosities?  Not to
mention the fact that my wife wouldn't be caught dead
in a minivan either. 

But the point is this: I am a *Dad* now.  A full-on,
wrapped-around-my-daughter's-finger Dad.  Donna teases
me mercilessly, but I swear Molly's going to be the
first Jewish president.  (Possibly the first female
president, depending on whether or not we get Governor
Douglas-Radford elected.) 

I am unparalleled at devising convoluted strategies to
achieve the ends I desire.  I am sought after by
residents of the highest echelons of the D.C.
political structure.  I can argue, debate, and disarm
the most eloquent conservative the RNC can muster up. 
The only person who has ever been able to leave me
speechless is my wife (and usually only when nudity
and/or sex are involved). 

In short, I am a Master Politician. 

All of which is by way of saying: My four-year-old
daughter can finagle just about anything from me
before I know what's happening!  How did this happen? 

Master Politician, my ass. 

*** 

I know every mother claims her child is unusually
intelligent, but I'm not exaggerating here.  Molly is
brilliant.  Also sneaky.  Not surprisingly, she was
born with a politician's aptitude for intrigue. 

Take tonight, for instance.  Molly, intelligent child
that she is, understands that Mommy and Daddy are
keeping some big secret from her, and she's determined
to get at the truth.  Personally, I think she's wise
to that whole "spell out the words you don't want the
child to understand" trick.  And so she responded
tonight with a favorite strategy of her own. 

Step number one in the Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman Plan:
"There's a monster under my bed." 

Now, you have to understand this: My daughter is
fearless.  She will respond to unfamiliar people and
situations with a steely gaze that is eerily
reminiscent of her father getting ready to smack down
some uncooperative senator.  And then she'll march
straight into places that would leave the average
four-year-old quaking with fear. 

What I'm saying here is that Molly doesn't do the
"monster under the bed" routine.  Or, if she does, she
prefers to face the monster on her own. 

Tonight, however, she is shedding the requisite
crocodile tears and informing her father (Molly long
ago decided that, of her two parents, Daddy is the
weaker link) that she wants to sleep with us tonight. 

We so had other plans. 

"Monsters, huh?" Josh asks. 

Molly nods her head vigorously.  "Big monsters.  The
big, mean conservative kind." 

Yeah, what can I say?  When Josh recites fairy tales,
he gives them a whole new spin. 

"And these conservative monsters are under your bed?"
Josh starts to stand up, presumably to go search under
Molly's bed for right-wing monsters, when she attempts
to push him back into his chair. 

"They're invisible monsters, Daddy.  You wouldn't be
able to see them." 

"So how do you know they're under your bed?" I ask,
once again the voice of reason in the Moss-Lyman
menagerie. 

Molly rolls her eyes, the universal childhood symbol
for "How dumb are my parents anyway?"  "They let
little kids see them.  Grown-ups, not so much." 

Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman, the only four-year-old fluent
in what CJ's husband Evan calls Bartletspeak. 

"So we can't go look for them?" I ask. 

"No.  You can't," Molly replies.  "And they're having
a big party in my bedroom, so you should stay out." 

"Conservatives are having a party in a bedroom in *my*
house?" Josh repeats. 

"Yes." 

"Country's really gone to hell since Baker took
office," Josh says. 

"Don't say h-e-l-l in front of M-o-l-l-y, Joshua." 

"Yeah, Joshua," my child repeats, "don't say hell in
front of Molly." 

I don't know whether to discipline her or reward her
for her advanced skill in spelling. 

After much negotiation (Molly is well on her way to
Master Politician status), we work out a compromise:
Molly can fall asleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed.  The
conservatives under her own bed, Molly assures us,
will give me safe passage into her bedroom for five
minutes (long enough to get Molly's pajamas). 
Furthermore, they have promised Molly that they'll
finish up their party an hour or so after she falls
asleep. 

"You believe them?" Josh asks. 

Molly nods solemnly.  "We made a deal." 

"Yeah?  What did you have to give up?" 

"They can play with my toys tonight." 

"All your toys?" Josh asks.  He's taking these
negotiations a little too seriously, if you ask me. 

"Not my books.  They can't read my books." 

"Good thinking.  And what did you get?" 

Molly ponders this for a moment. 

"They have to be very quiet when we're sleeping." 

"That all?  So far, you're giving up more than you're
getting." 

Molly does an uncanny imitation of her father's
crinkly forehead thing.  "They're going to buy toys
for all the children at Grandma's women's shelter." 

Okay, she got us with that one. Josh and I look at
each other and beam.  We have raised a child with an
advanced social conscience. 

Or, you know, a child who really, really knows how to
play her parents. 

Or, what is more likely, a child with an advanced
social conscience who also knows how to play her
parents. 

*** 

My daughter is, as you might expect considering her
heritage, intellectually curious.  To say the least .
Her favorite question is "Why?" and sometimes she
manages to stump Donna and me.  I mean, really--who
can explain how the air conditioner works? 

"A noble gas is involved," I offer. 

Donna nods.  "Yeah, and something about a compressor."


Molly mulls it over.  "What's a noble gas?" 

And so it goes.  And a word to the wise--good luck
explaining the concept of electrons and valences to a
four year old.  Molly is now convinced that we're all
made up of tiny solar systems. 

Which is kind of a nice idea, now that I think about
it. 

At any rate, she absorbs knowledge with almost
alarming ease (hence the very limited access to TV and
the carefully selected library of kids' books).  And
she asks very perceptive questions. 

So after Mommy valiantly braves the conservative
monsters to rescue Molly's pajamas, the three of us
settle in bed to watch Politically Incorrect.  It's a
special occasion; Uncle Sam's on tonight.  Plus we'd
much rather have Molly watch intelligent political
discussions than cartoons.  Have you seen some of the
violence on shows like the Power Rangers?  (And aren't
they getting old yet?)  To make it worse, cartoon
violence has no consequences.  Speaking as someone
with a ten-inch scar and lingering physical hardships,
let me assure you that violence has concrete and
long-lasting effects. 

I pull Donna a little closer and press a kiss to
Molly's forehead. 

My daughter points to the TV.  "Where's Uncle Sam?" 

"He'll be on in a minute," Donna tells her.  Then she
grins at the screen.  "Who's that, Molly?" 

"Uncle Sam!"  Molly claps happily. 

We watch for a few minutes in silence.  Margaret Cho
makes a few good points about civil unions.  I always
liked her. 

"Uncle Sam looks pretty," Molly decides. 

Startled, I begin to laugh.  "What?" 

"He's pretty." 

Donna bites her lip to keep from laughing.  "Yes, he
is.  You should tell him that sometime." 

I turn my head into the pillow to stifle my laughter. 

Then Bill Maher shifts gears and asks about the gun
control bill winding its way through Congress.  My
amusement leeches away. 

Molly, always sensitive to nonverbal cues, glances up
at us, a crinkle in her forehead.  "What are they
talking about?" 

I swallow hard, but Donna answers, "Guns." 

Molly nods.  "How come Uncle Sam doesn't have his
beard?" 

"His beard?" I ask. 

Molly jumps up, her little body bending at the waist,
one hand extending and pointing at us, and a fierce
look on her face.  Then she melts back into Molly and
drops to her knees, gesturing at her lavendar pajamas.
 "I don't have the hat," she tells us. 

"Oh," Donna says.  "Uncle Sam." 

And then I get it.  Molly was, in her inimitable way,
mimicking the Uncle Sam Wants You! posters from World
War II. 

"That's a different Uncle Sam," I explain to Molly. 
"Not your Uncle Sam." 

Molly settles back down in between us.  "But guns
belong to the army." 

"Yes, they do," Donna answers. 

"So how come Uncle Sam's talking about guns if he's
not Uncle Sam from the army?" 

I blink a couple of times.  "Because some people think
that everyone should have guns, not just the army." 

Molly considers.  "That's stupid." 

Donna and I beam at her.  "Yes, it is." 

"Guns are dangerous," Molly says. 

"Yes, they are."  Donna's hand caresses my back
softly. 

"Are those people Republicans?" Molly asks. 

Is my daughter a genius or what? 

"Yes," Donna answers. 

Molly wiggles around a bit until she's laying down. 
Then she yawns and says, "Uncle Sam's not a
Republican, right?" 

"No," I almost shout.  "Uncle Sam's a liberal
Democrat." 

"Why does he have a Republican girlfriend?" 

The universal question.  Donna and I shrug at each
other. 

"Sometimes there's no accounting for taste," Donna
offers finally. 

Thankfully in all the confusion over Uncle Sam's party
affiliation, Molly missed the part of Politically
Incorrect where Sam no doubt went off on his usual
rant about how his best friend almost died and by god
he's gonna get the guns.  I wouldn't want to have to
try to explain that to a four-year-old. 

Molly's too young to understand.  She's too young for
the nightmares. 

Donna leans down and kisses Molly.  "Good night,
sweetheart." 

"G'night, Mommy.  G'night, Daddy." 

I kiss her good night.  "Sweet dreams." 

*** 

When she's sleeping, Molly is almost the daughter I
fantasized about--the adorable moppet with her long
blonde hair spread out around her like a halo.  Molly
has this ritual when she climbs into bed with her
parents.  She cuddles up next to me, her head pressing
into my side, her tiny hand clutching Josh's larger
one.  Josh and I, of course, have our own ritual,
which consists mostly of grinning at each other like
idiots over Molly's head, exchanging these looks that
clearly say, "Isn't she amazing?  How did we manage to
create this?" 

Yeah, Molly doesn't have her parents completely
wrapped around her little fingers or anything. 

Tonight, however, Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman is a young
woman with a plan.  Her goal is to pretend she's
sleeping--and to do such a convincing job that Mommy
and Daddy fall for her act.  Her parents, having been
lulled into a false sense of security, will discuss
their plans and she will overhear things she's not
supposed to know. 

Considering her age, Molly does a fairly good
imitation of a person sleeping normally.  However, she
has yet to manage the more subtle nuances of the
performance.  She shuts her eyelids a little too
tightly, as though just having her eyes closed in a
normal fashion is not enough to convince anyone that
she's sleeping.  And she has yet to realize that it's
important to regulate your breathing if you want to
fool your audience. 

Still, for a four-year-old, it's a damn good
performance. 

Heaven help Josh and me when she hits five. 

Josh and I exchange a quick glance, tacitly agreeing
that it's time to pacify her.  We'll throw out a few
tidbits so she thinks she's fooled us and learned all
her parents' secrets without our giving away anything
major. 

"You think Molly's asleep yet?" I ask in my best
"don't wake the child" voice. 

Josh peers over, his face inches from Molly's.  Molly,
sensing her father's movement, shuts her eyes even
tighter to better help along her charade. 

"Oh, yeah, she's asleep," he says.  I shoot him a look
that's meant to admonish him for his tone of voice. 
Because, really, if he starts laughing now, he'll blow
the whole thing. 

"Maybe we should put her back to bed," I suggest. 

"Monsters," Molly whispers.  This is her
child-innocently-talking-in-her-sleep voice. 

"Oh, right," Josh says, as though just remembering. 
As though every unfortunate soul who comes into
contact with him tomorrow is not going to hear about
his daughter negotiating a deal with the conservative
Republican monsters under her bed. 

I see more letters of apology in Molly's future. 

"I'm sure she'll be fine," I say.  "She doesn't need
to sleep in here with us." 

We wait for the comeback. I swear, you can see the
wheels turning in her head.  Finally, she whispers,
"Mommy makes the monsters go away." 

Okay, I know when I'm being played, but that one got
to me anyway. 

"Yeah," Josh says.  His voice suddenly sounds very
hoarse, and he's making a point of looking at the top
of Molly's head rather than at me.  "Mommy's good at
that." 

Dammit, Joshua, don't make me cry in front of the
child. 

I manage to regain my composure by focusing on the
task at hand. 

Misdirection, that time-honored Moss-Lyman family
tradition.  Molly, like many children, is
hypersensitive when it comes to reading her parents'
moods.  She knows when we're keeping secrets from her.
 Our task now is to prevent her discovering the Big
Secret--because, after all, it's much too soon to be
sharing the Big Secret with a four-year-old.  This
means we have to placate her--give her a smaller
secret that will satisfy her curiosity, at least for
the moment. 

Luckily for us, we have a damn good Small Secret. 

"Well," I say, "since Molly's asleep, I guess it's
safe to discuss the thing." 

"You're not afraid she'll wake up?" 

In an attempt to prove just how soundly she is
sleeping, Molly snores. I've never been quite sure
where my daughter acquired the art of snoring.  We
limit the amount of television she's allowed to watch,
and I've never personally noticed snoring on Blue's
Clues, but it seems like the logical explanation. 

When Molly snores, she puts her entire body into it. 
She takes a breath so deep that it rocks her tiny body
off the bed momentarily, and then she produces a sound
that more closely resembles a honking goose than a
human being. 

I have to bite my lip and avoid Josh's eyes in order
to control my laughter. 

"Yep," Josh notes, "that's a pretty deep sleep our
little girl's in.  Guess it's safe to discuss the
thing." 

And the snoring magically stops.  Because, after all,
Molly might miss hearing something good in the midst
of all that honking. 

"So I have the, um, the thing tomorrow, so that could
be a problem." 

For half a second, Josh goes all panicky on me. 
"You're expecting problems?" 

"Not with the thing itself, no.  No problems.  I'm
just worried that I'll be late and miss lunch." 

"Oh.  Well, that's fine.  We'll wait.  CJ knows why
you might not be on time, right?" 

"Yes.  CJ knows." 

And at the mention of her Aunt CJ, Molly gasps.  A
visit from Aunt CJ is one of the major events in the
child's year--right up there with birthdays and
Hanukkah.  Aunt CJ lives in an enchanted kingdom
called California, a world filled with sun and beaches
and that most magical of all things--electoral votes. 

In Molly's view of the world, electoral votes are like
witches' spells: With the right combination, you can
make the most incredible things happen. 

Again, I blame Josh and his strange version of bedtime
stories.  Especially his favorite--the one about how
the Evil Republican Ogre Baker stole the magic
electoral votes and made Princess Molly and kindly Sir
Jed leave the beautiful White House with the giant
Oval Playroom.  (And can I just comment on how Josh's
view of the world turns his daughter into a princess
but he refuses to promote the President to king?) 

Even if CJ did not live in a wondrous land filled with
electoral votes, she would still be Molly's
favorite--well, her *only*--aunt.  She talks to Molly
as though the child were an adult; Molly hates people
talking down to her.  Also, CJ sends Molly presents
several times a year for no discernible reason.  It's
not the presents themselves that Molly cares about as
much as it is the moment when the package arrives,
carefully addressed to Ms. Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman. 

Molly hordes those address labels the way other
children collect overpriced trading cards.  She brags
to her preschool cronies about how she receives mail
of her very own all the way from California. 

And when her friend Crista went on and on about being
a flower girl in her older sister's wedding, Molly
topped that.  Molly was CJ's maid of honor.  CJ and
Evan had a quiet wedding in their Bay Area home last
year--just close friends and immediate family.  The
original plan was for me to stand up with CJ while
Evan's brother played the role of best man. 

As it turned out, however, Molly was inconsolable. 
Despite our trip to the Magic Land of Electoral Votes,
all Molly could focus on was that some strange man was
taking Aunt CJ away.  And my selfish child seemed to
be worried that if Aunt CJ got married, she might have
a little girl of her own and quit spending so much
time (and money) on her honorary niece. 

The day before her wedding, CJ had private discussion
with my daughter.  I was never privy to the entire
conversation; Aunt CJ is very serious about respecting
Molly's privacy.  However, when they emerged an hour
later, CJ informed me that there would be a slight
change of plans.  My daughter was usurping my role in
the wedding party. 

Josh says I was a big ball of girlish emotion that
day, but he looked suspiciously teary-eyed himself. 
There was Molly, clad in a frilly white dress and a
very stylish hat, standing solemnly besides Aunt CJ
and clutching Evan's wedding ring as tightly as she
could.  She takes responsibility seriously, my Molly
does, and guarding that ring until CJ needed it was
the most important task she'd been given in her short
life. 

All this is by way of saying that a visit from Aunt CJ
is an event that will overshadow everything else in
Molly's world for weeks. 

Cleverly ignoring his daughter's rather audible
gasping, Josh says, "So I'm betting Molly will be
surprised when CJ meets us for lunch." 

"Definitely," I reply.  "She hasn't got a clue." 
Molly, of course, finds this statement extremely
amusing.  She's doing an admirable job of not laughing
out loud, but the tiny bursts of air that have started
tickling my side are a pretty good giveaway that she's
barely containing herself. 

"Yep," Josh says--really, he enjoys egging her on way
too much--"she's completely fooled." 

"Wouldn't she be surprised if she knew?" 

And that's when Molly decides she can take no more. 
She giggles.  She laughs.  She downright guffaws. 

"That must be some dream she's having," Josh comments.

She opens her eyes, turns around and faces her father.
 "I'm not asleep," she announces. 

"Really?" Josh asks.  "When'd you wake up?" 
 
"Daddy," she says in her "I was sired by an idiot"
voice, "I never fell asleep.  I was awake the whole
time." 

"Not the whole time," Josh insists. 

"Yes, the whole time," Molly says.  "I heard every
single word you and Mommy said.  I know it all. 
Everything.  Aunt CJ's coming, and I know it."  And
then, because when Molly is excited, she needs to use
her entire body to express herself, she jumps up and
starts bouncing on the bed, announcing in a rather
loud voice, "I fooled Mommy, and I fooled Daddy, and I
win!" 

What can I say?  My daughter is a Lyman; the need to
win is part of her genetic makeup. 

She raises both arms into the air, shouts, "I am the
*woman*!" and then executes an inelegant somersault,
landing on Josh's chest. 

"You know, I'm reconsidering the wisdom of those
gymnastic lessons," I mutter. 

***

"You sure you don't want me to go with you?" I ask,
even as Molly tugs me toward the door.  She inherited
her mother's freakish strength, and it's actually a
struggle to remain in one place to talk to Donna. 

"Daddy," Molly says, exasperated.  "Come *on*!" 

"Go," Donna says, smiling.  "It's just the
preliminary, you know, thing.  They won't do the
other--" 

"'Kay," I interrupt, letting Molly start to win our
impromptu tug of war.  "But I want it in the record
that I offered." 

"Duly noted, Josh," Donna answers dryly.  "Go with
your daughter.  I'll meet you later." 

"We're at Semolina," I call over my shoulder as the
door slams shut behind me. 

"I know," Donna yells out the window. 

Molly clambers into the aging Audi and hops into her
seat so I can fasten her complicated strap-harness
contraption.  I never realized how much *equipment*
children require.  Plus children often dislike the
restraints--or at least *my* child does--and so
distraction is sometimes necessary. 

"Where are we going, Molly?" 

"Mock people," she answers, clapping her hands
together in delight. 

I grin at her.  "Yes, we are.  But we're not gonna
mock Aunt CJ or Uncle Evan, right?" 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"'Cause they're liberal Democrats," my little
politician answers promptly. 

"Good girl," I give her a kiss on the forehead and
close the door.  When I get in the driver's seat,
she's pouting at me in the rearview mirror. 

"I'm not a girl." 

"You're not?  And here we've been dressing you in
girls' clothes this whole time." 

"Daddy," she says in her "my daddy thinks he's being
funny but he's really not" voice.  She picked that up
from her mother.  "I'm a *Lady*." 

"Oh," I say.  "Excuse me, then, my Lady." 

Molly giggles and points at the road.  "Take me to
Aunt CJ." 

Well, she's certainly got that sense of entitlement
that's common to nobles and Republicans.  Sounds like
it's time for a trip to see Grandma. 

When Molly and I reach Semolina, I valet the car,
because handling a ball of squirming four-year-old is
headache enough for one day; I'm certainly not going
to go parking spot hunting too. 

CJ and her husband Evan are already inside when Molly
and I stroll through the doors hand in hand.  CJ
bursts out laughing. 

"Nice to see you too," I tell her. 

"No," she says, bringing her amusement under control. 
"You're just too cute with her."  CJ leans down until
she's almost even with Molly.  "Hi, Molly.  I like
your purse." 

"It's a backpack," Molly says with a good deal of
righteous indignation.  Of course, she's carrying it
in her hand and it's only really got the one strap,
but if she says it's a backpack, a backpack it is. 

CJ nods seriously.  "A backpack.  Right.  You're a
Lyman." 

"Moss-Lyman," Molly corrects. 

CJ's smile is impossibly wide as she straightens up. 
"Molly, do you remember Evan?" 

And suddenly my fearless four-year-old turns shy,
staring down at her shoes and clutching my hand
tightly.  "Yeah," she says very softly. 

Evan crouches down in front of her.  "Well, hello,
there, Miss Molly Moss-Lyman." 

"'Lo," Molly answers, hiding her smile by turning her
head almost into my leg. 

Evan ruffles her hair, then stands up.  "Josh, how've
you been?" 

I don't know Evan very well, considering he and CJ
live in San Francisco, but they seem very happy
together.  I grin and shake his hand.  "Good.  Liked
the book, by the way.  Congratulations." 

"Thanks," he answers, smiling.  "Shall we?" 

"Yeah.  Donna's got the thing, but she'll catch up
with us later." 

Molly tugs at my hand as the maitre d' shows us to our
table. 

"Is that one, Daddy?" she asks, pointing to a man at
another table who happens to be a staffer in the
majority whip's office. 

I grab Molly's hand and lift her onto the seat. 
"What'd Mommy say about pointing?" 

"It's impolite." 

"That's right," I tell Molly, ignoring the snickers
from the other side of the table. 

"Sorry, Daddy," Molly apologizes, blushing a little
and cutting a quick look Evan's way.  I can't figure
out why she's so shy all of a sudden.  "Is that man
over there a Republican, Daddy?" 

"Yes." 

"Josh," CJ admonishes, "what are you teaching this
poor girl?" 

Molly pipes up--and it should be noted that she is
definitely not using her inside voice right now--with
"Daddy taught me to mock Republicans!" 

*** 

One of the unexpected benefits of motherhood has been
watching Molly's complete delight whenever she and I
are reunited.  Not that I've ever spent more than one
night separated from her, but my presence in the room
is Molly's idea of an event.  I swear, I can go to the
store for an hour; and when I get back, my daughter
will come bounding into my arms with so much emotion
that you'd think we'd been separated for months. 

Today is no exception.  She bounces out of her chair
and flings herself into my arms before I have a chance
to say hello to CJ.  Or, you know, kiss Josh.  Molly
is a big fan of the idea of Mommy and Daddy kissing. 
I think it makes her feel secure or something. 

Never mind that Mommy and Daddy aren't generally the
sort of people who engage in major public displays of
affection. 

So I get a minute or so of being hugged by my daughter
with many variations of "I missed you so much, Mommy."
 (The unspoken message here is usually some variation
on "Did you buy me a present?"  Luckily, Molly is
still at the stage where a pack of stickers from the
drugstore will provide hours of amusement.)  And then
Molly looks up from her new treasure to sigh, "Mommy,
you haven't said hello to Daddy." 

This is a Lyman family ritual, and I give my standard
response:  "Your father and I have already met,
Molly." 

Molly, on cue, laughs uproariously.  "Kiss him," she
shouts. 

"Molly Jordan, use your indoor voice please." 

"Kiss him already," Molly whispers impatiently. 

So I'm turning several shades of red here, while CJ
and Evan look way too amused.  I turn to He Whose Job
It Was to Make Sure His Daughter Behaved Today.  He,
unfortunately, also looks way too amused. 

I mutter something distinctly unflattering to the
object of my affection and give him a quick peck on
the cheek. 

"They kiss much better at home," Molly stage-whispers
to her Aunt CJ. 

Yeah, so one of the disadvantages of being a mother? 
Having a child whose mission in life seems to be
causing you public humiliation. 

*** 

Every time I glance over at Molly--which, given my
ridiculous proud father routine, is quite often--she's
got another sticker somewhere on her body.  Donna
chose horses today, and right now there's a sparkly
Clydesdale galloping across Molly's forehead and a
Palomino standing on her chubby little hand. 

CJ, the favored aunt, was presented with a pony, and
Evan got a speckled horse.  Usually, anything with
polka dots is the most beloved of its peer
group--which means Molly keeps it for herself.  I
haven't quite figured out why she gave the spotted
sticker to Evan; but before I can puzzle it out, CJ
and Donna finish up the pleasantries.  (CJ, if you're
wondering, is quite happy with her job at the Feminist
Majority Foundation, and Evan's book just got
nominated for a National Book Award.) 

Now we can get down to business.  You see, Donna and I
have a little wager on the outcome of her doctor's
appointment--whoever loses has to pay for lunch.  And,
yes, it's a ridiculous wager, considering we have a
joint checking account, but it's the principle of the
thing. 

I turn my expectant gaze to Donna, who's helping Molly
apply what looks like one of those miniature horses to
her t-shirt.  "So," I start, "who won?" 

Donna rolls her eyes and tells CJ and Evan, "Allow me
to apologize in advance for this." 

CJ looks apprehensive.  "For what?" 

Pursing her mouth the way she does when she's deciding
how to phrase something, Donna finally says, "Josh and
I sort of bet on, you know, the thing." 

Molly looks up, instantly curious.  "What thing?" 

Donna flushes an adorable pink.  "Daddy's and my stamp
collection, honey." 

Molly nods solemnly.  "Mommy and Daddy love their
stamp collection," she tells CJ. 

For her part, CJ chokes on a sip of water.  "You bet
on--" 

"When exactly we acquired our latest stamp," I
interrupt before she can finish the sentence.  "Yes." 

Evan looks a little lost.  "Wait--Are we talking
about--" 

"Yes."  CJ rubs her forehead.  "I told you they talk
in code." 

Molly frowns.  "What's code?" 

I glare at CJ.  "Yes, Aunt CJ, would you like to
explain code to Molly?" 

Evan smirks and leans back in his seat.  "Go for it,
my dear." 

CJ thinks for a moment, then takes Molly's hand. 
"Sometimes, when people love each other, they have a
special way of talking.  Your Mommy and Daddy don't
want anyone to know that they say sweet things to each
other, so they speak in code."  She flashes me a
superior look.  "How's that?" 

"Not bad," I grudgingly admit. 

Molly's eyes are very wide.  "Can I speak in code?" 
She turns to Donna.  "Mommy, I wanna speak in code
with you and Daddy." 

Donna brushes Molly's blonde locks out of her face,
pausing to unstick a few strands from the Clydesdale. 
"You already do, sweetheart." 

"I do?" Molly asks, amazed. 

"Yup," I tell her.  "When we talk about politics.  I
don't know any other four-year-olds who would
understand." 

Molly's little body puffs up with pride.  "I'm smart."


"You see what I mean about the Lyman ego?" Donna
murmurs to CJ. 

CJ laughs outright.  "And you want another--" 

"Stamp," Evan interjects just in time. 

"Thank you," I tell him.  Then I turn to Donna. 
"Speaking of which, you still haven't answered the
question of when we acquired this wonderful new
stamp?" 

Donna takes a sip of water, frowns, and says, "Seven
weeks." 

I give her a puzzled look as I do the math in my head.
 "Seven?  Really?  I could have sworn it was--" 

"Josh!" Donna yelps, with a pointed look at Molly's
fascinated expression. 

"Right," I say, reaching over to ruffle my daughter's
hair.  I can't believe Donna's giving me another one. 
"So that means--" 

"Early December, yes." Donna smirks at me.  "So if we
want to take that trip to Bali while I still look hot
in a bikini--" 

"Actually," CJ interrupts, clearing her throat. 

My attention is immediately captured--CJ is so relaxed
and so comfortable these days that even the hint of
trepidation on her part makes me incredibly nervous. 
"What?" I demand. 

"Well," she hedges.  "I'm not sure right now is the
best time to mention this."  She glances over at
Molly, who is, thankfully, absorbed in drawing a
pasture on the back of her placemat for her sticker
friends. 

"It's okay," Donna tells CJ. 

CJ and Evan exchange looks.  "I spoke to Abbey last
week," CJ begins. 

Donna brightens.  "Oh, how is she?" 

"Good," CJ answers.  "Very good.  The President is
too.  And the girls, though it seems odd to call them
that considering that Zoey's twenty-eight." 

"Zoey's twenty-eight?" I repeat, incredulous. 

CJ nods.  "I know.  And Annie's twenty-one." 

"Annie can drink?" Donna muses.  "That's just scary." 

"Yup," CJ agrees.  "But what Abbey and I discussed,
actually, is the possibility of a reunion of sorts." 

I stare at her.  "We left office three months ago. 
Isn't this a little early?" 

"Yes," CJ answers, dropping her gaze. 

I'm immediately suspicious.  "Wait--When is the
reunion?" 

CJ looks over at Evan, who looks at me and says,
"May." 

I glance reflexively at Donna, then at Molly, who's
oblivious to us, concentrating instead on getting the
sky a perfect shade of blue.  She, like her mother, is
very detail-oriented. 

"No," I say. 

"Josh."  Donna takes my hand.  "Why not?" 

"A reunion?" I repeat.  "That's bullshit." 

Molly looks up, wide-eyed.  "Daddy, you said a bad
word." 

"Yes," I tell her.  "I'm sorry.  And don't you repeat
that." 

Molly considers for a moment.  "Okay, but I want *two*
bedtime stories tonight." 

"Done," Donna answers distractedly. 

CJ chuckles.  "She really is amazing." 

"She is," I agree.  "And I don't want her exposed
to--" I shrug.  "Darkness." 

Donna looks over at CJ.  "It wouldn't be dark, would
it?" 

"No," CJ agrees.  "It's not about the--"  She shrugs. 
"--the darkness, Josh.  It's about the fact that we
made it to the other side." 

I reach for Molly.  "C'mere, honey.  You want some of
my french fries?" 

"Oh, sure," Donna jokes.  "You offer them to her; I
have to steal them." 

I give her a weak smile and help Molly clamber onto my
lap.  "If you stopped stealing them, maybe I'd offer
you some." 

CJ takes a bite of her salad.  "We don't have to make
any decisions right now, Josh.  I just wanted to float
the possibility." 

"I think we should go," Donna says.  "I think it's a
great idea." 

"Go where?" Molly asks around a mouthful of fries. 

"Don't speak with your mouth full," I tell her
automatically. 

Molly swallows quickly.  "Sorry, Daddy.  Where are we
going?" 

"I don't know," I tell Molly.  Then I look over to CJ.
 "It seems... morbid." 

"It's not," CJ insists.  "It's a celebration, Josh. 
It's the perfect way to prove to ourselves that
those--"  She stops, looks at Molly, and chooses a new
word.  "--those people didn't hurt us.  That we're
stronger than their hatred." 

"I have proof of that already," I tell her, hugging
Molly closer. 

Donna swallows hard, and I can tell she's on the verge
of tears.  Damn hormones.  I hold Donna's gaze.  She
nods slightly.  "It'll be good, Josh." 

"You think?" 

"I do." 

"What about the new stamp?" 

"Another reason to celebrate." 

I think it over, my gaze settling on my daughter's
upturned face.  "Where are we going?" she repeats. 

"In a while," I tell her, "we're going to see Sir Jed
and Lady Abbey." 

Molly squeals with delight and claps her little hands,
dislodging the Palomino.  "Yay!  Can we go now?" 

"No, honey," Donna laughs.  "We're going in a few
weeks." 

Molly frowns for a moment.  "Okay," she says finally. 
"But Aunt CJ and Uncle Evan have to stay here until
then." 

*** 

"Ow!" Molly holds out one little hand, palm up. 
"Nickel!" she demands, and I fish through my purse,
praying I have the correct change. 

We started this little ritual during the Terrible Twos
when Molly informed me that she didn't care what her
hair looked like, brushing *hurt.*  Is it my fault the
child inherited my fine hair?  I ask you, would she be
better off with hair like her father's? 

I think we all know the answer to that question. 

At any rate, our solution is simple and elegant: We
bribe her.  She lets us brush her hair, and she gets a
nickel every time we cause her pain. 

Yeah, the child is making a fortune. 

Dropping a nickel into my daughter's outstretched
hand, I continue brushing and hope to distract her
with conversation.  (I'm running out of nickels, if
you want to know the truth.)  "So did you have fun
today?" I ask. 

"Tons of fun," she answers.  "Daddy let me mock." 

"Okay, Molly, for future reference, mocking is not
nice." 

She thinks that over for a minute.  "Daddy does it." 

"Yes, he does. However--" 

"Don't you think Daddy is nice?" 

I think Daddy is an overgrown child.  An extremely
sexy overgrown child, but that's not the point. 

"Daddy's very nice.  However--" 

"You know who else is nice?  Evan." 

Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter, the queen of
misdirection. 

"Evan's very nice.  And he doesn't mock, which makes
my point." 

Molly considers this for a few minutes.  Her forehead
puckers up in an uncanny imitation of her father,
making my heart turn over a few times. 

"Evan likes Aunt CJ," Molly announces. 

"Evan loves your Aunt CJ." 

"Does Aunt CJ ever mock?" 

When in doubt, lie.  "No," I answer.  "Never." 

Molly gives a heartfelt, long-suffering sigh.  "I
s'pose I could stop if I *had* to." 

"I'm sure you could." 

"Daddy will be unhappy.  Ow.  'Nother nickel, Mommy. 
He'll have to mock all alone." 

"He'll learn to live with the disappointment." 

Molly considers this for a moment.  "Are you mocking
Daddy?" 

"Me?  Never.  I never, ever mock Daddy." 

Molly swivels around.  "'Ladies and gentlemen,'" she
repeats, sounding a little too much like me for
comfort, "it's Joshua Lyman and his amazing ego.'  How
come that's not mocking?" 

"That's teasing." 

"What's the difference?" 

"I tease Daddy because I love him." 

"Do you love him lots?" 

"Lots and lots.  And Daddy likes when I tease him. 
Mocking is for people you don't care about, and they
wouldn't like it." 

"Can I tease Daddy?" 

"Knock yourself out." 

"What can I tease him about?" 

"How about the time he left his backpack on the roof
of the car?" 

Molly doubles over with laughter.  "That was silly,"
she says. 

"Yes, you have a silly Daddy," I agree. 

"I'll call him Silly Daddy from now on.  To tease." 

"Sounds like a plan." 

The Lyman sarcasm redirected, at least for the moment,
Molly lapses into silence.  Lengthy bouts of silence
usually mean she's pondering some weighty question. 
Last night it was why dogs can't vote.  And why we
don't have one.  I wait for tonight's question. 

"Is Evan really my uncle?" she finally asks. 

"He's sort of an honorary uncle by marriage." 

"Can I marry an honorary by marriage uncle?" 

Wow!  Those Lyman hormones kick in early.  "Molly,
Evan's already married to Aunt CJ." 

"They could get--What's the word, Mommy?  Like Uncle
Toby and the nice lady from Congress." 

"Divorced.  But that would make CJ sad." 

Molly thinks this over for a moment.  It's a weighty
philosophical problem.  As taken as she is with Evan,
Molly adores her aunt. 

"I wouldn't want Aunt CJ to be sad," she decides.  She
sighs, clearly brokenhearted over giving up her dreams
of becoming Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman-Drexler.  But then
she brightens up considerably.  "Maybe by the time I'm
grown up, Aunt CJ will be tired of being married to
Evan." 

"I don't think that's going to happen." 

"It could," Molly insists.  "I used to like playing
Candyland, but I got tired of it." 

"Being in love is a little more serious than that," I
explain.  "You don't get tired of the other person if
you really love them." 

"And Aunt CJ really loves Evan?" 

"Yes," I nod.  "Like I really love Daddy." 

With one of those lightning quick change of topics
that Josh erroneously claims she inherits solely from
me, Molly switches tactics.  "People get new
boyfriends and stuff.  Is that love?" 

"That's dating.  Which can lead to love, but not
always." 

"Did you have boyfriends before Daddy?" 

Let's not delve into the quicksand here.  "Yes, but I
didn't love them." 

"Of course not," a voice pipes up from the doorway. 
"They were all crosseyed."  Josh is leaning against
the door frame, looking entirely too pleased with
himself.  I'm guessing he didn't overhear the part
about Molly's crush on Evan.  He wouldn't be that smug
if he'd guessed that another man had temporarily
eclipsed him in his daughter's eyes. 

"Irving," I say, "was not crosseyed." 

"He was too," Josh insists.  "And he lisped." 

You know those tacky old drawings, the kind that were
popular in the 1960s?  The ones with those children
with the enormous eyes?  If Molly's fascination with
her parents' discussion of the infamous Irving Seymour
Hackenbush continues, that's what she's going to look
like.  "Who's Irving?" she asks. 

Yeah, I was afraid of that. 

"Your mother's old lisping, crosseyed boyfriend," Josh
explains. 

"Irving," I tell Molly, "is kind of a joke." 

"I'll say," Josh mutters.  Molly's eyes grow even
wider. 

"Your Daddy and I made Irving up.  Irving was
pretend." 

"Oh," Molly says.  "He was your imaginary friend." 

Josh finds this hilarious.  "That's exactly what he
was, Molly.  He was your mother's imaginary crosseyed
friend." 

You're paying for that one, Joshua Lyman.  "And Daddy
had an imaginary friend named Viridis," I add. 

Molly is so delighted with this piece of information
that she throws her arms around me.  "That's *you*!"
she announces.  "Donnatella Viridis Moss-Lyman. 
Daddy's so silly that he named his imaginary friend
after his own wife." 

"I'm sadly obsessed," Josh agrees. 

Molly sighs happily and rests her head against my
neck.  "That is so romantical," she says. 

I glance over her head to notice how Josh is beaming
at Molly and me.  "Romantic," I correct Molly
automatically.  "And, yes, it really is." 

"Romantic," Molly repeats dreamily.  I think she may
be well on her way to falling asleep when she looks up
at me and asks, "Mommy, what is Evan's middle name?" 

*** 

"Daddy?" 

I don't exactly toss aside the briefing memo on the
mine-districts of southern Pennsylvania, but... Yeah,
okay.  I toss it aside and give my daughter my full
attention.  I mean, Donna went to bed a good half hour
ago, leaving me all alone with never-ending
information on the horrendous mining conditions and
the corruption of some of the unions. 

Molly's standing next to my knee, an indistinguishable
plush toy of some sort crammed under her arm. 

"What've you got there, Molly?" 

She blinks up at me with those big brown eyes that my
mom swears are just as frustratingly guileless as mine
were when I was young.  My mother laughs uproariously
when she says this.  That fact alarms me. 

Molly pulls the toy out and holds it up for my
inspection.  "Goofy." 

I nod soberly.  "Goofy, huh?" 

Molly clambers up onto the couch beside me, her bare
feet beating out a staccato rhythm against the seat
cushion.  "I like Goofy," she tells me.  At four years
old, Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman is already a force to be
reckoned with; when she likes something, she will be
loyal to it until the end. 

I look a little more closely at the stuffed...
thingie.  "What *is* Goofy, anyway?" 

The fact that my daughter mastered her mother's best
"you are a complete dolt" eyebrow lift before she hit
three is utterly terrifying.  One day this girl is
going to--You know what?  Let's not even go there. 
I'm sure the President can suggest a top-notch
convent. 

I wonder if they have liberal Democratic nuns.  Or,
you know, Jewish nuns. 

"Daddy."  Molly's insistent voice derails my train of
thought.  "Goofy's a stuffed animal." 

"I meant what *kind* of animal." 

That stumps her momentarily, and I can't help but grin
down at her blonde head.  She really is luminous, my
daughter. 

Molly chews a little on her lower lip as she ponders
the question, her expression eerily reminiscent of CJ.
 "A dog," she decides, staring at the doll clutched in
her tiny little hands. 

"A dog?" I repeat, skeptical.  Granted, I don't know
much about Disney characters, but--Wait a second.  How
did she get her hot little hands on a Disney toy?  If
memory serves, Donna banned "that corporate megalith,
its misogynous cartoons, and its consumer-culture
tools of indoctrination disguised as toys" from the
Moss-Lyman abode. 

"Yes, Daddy.  A dog."  Molly gives a decisive nod,
considering the matter settled. 

I'm not so sure; it doesn't really *look* like a dog. 
I hold out my hand in a silent request for the thing,
but Molly tilts her head back and stares down her nose
at me.  Which is quite a feat, considering her
diminutive size.  "It's a dog," she repeats. 

"How can you be sure?" 

"I know." 

Well, no one can ever accuse Donna and me of raising a
child with self-esteem issues.  Donna blames what she
calls my overweening ego; I prefer to credit my
stellar parenting skills. 

I ruffle Molly's hair, just to see her do that
adorable annoyed look.  "Handing out degrees in
veterinary medicine at your preschool, are they?" 

Molly's forehead wrinkles.  "Veterarin--"  She frowns,
knowing that's not quite right. 

"Veterinary," I repeat a little more slowly. 

"Veterin--" she pauses.  "--nary." 

I beam down at her.  How smart is she?  "Yes!" 

"What does veterinary mean?" she asks, stumbling a bit
on the unfamiliar word. 

"A veterinarian is a kind of doctor who treats
animals." 

Her chubby cheeks dimple as she smiles.  "Goofy can go
to a veterinarian." 

I give her a shrug.  "Well, only if Goofy is actually
a dog.  And since that has never been conclusively
proven--" 

"Daddy!" Molly interrupts, laughing.  She, unlike her
mother, enjoys when I get all lawyeristic. 

"Your Honor," I say to the armchair in the corner,
"please admonish the witness for interrupting such a
distinguished barrister in the middle of--" 

"Uncle Sam says you're not a real lawyer," Molly
interrupts, her tone mischievous.  Already she
understands the basics of political maneuvering,
because her statement distracts me totally from the
question of Goofy's lineage. 

"Uncle Sam said what?" 

Yeah, I know--It disturbs me to call him "Uncle Sam"
too, especially given the company he keeps.  My
daughter is *not* going to grow up with a conservative
Republican for an aunt; not even an honorary one. 

"When you were in 'Sylvania with the Gov'nor," Molly
answers.  Her pronunciation suffers when she's tired. 
"Mommy told Uncle Sam you were gonna advise on the
Fourteenth Amendment, and then Uncle Sam laughed and
made 'sparaging remarks about your legal expertise." 

Yeah, only my daughter would rattle off phrases like
"Fourteenth Amendment" and "legal expertise," then
trip over "disparaging" and "veterinarian."  I press a
little kiss onto her forehead, just because.  "He did,
did he?" 

Molly slips her little hand into mine.  "Yeah.  Daddy,
I'm not sure Goofy's a dog." 

"That's all right," I tell her, squeezing her tiny
fingers.  "What else did Uncle Sam say?"  It sounds to
me like Uncle Sam's gonna get a little bit of payback.
 Tell *my* daughter I'm not a real lawyer; only
Donna's allowed to do that. 

"Lots of stuff." Molly shrugs.  "Maybe we should make
sure 'bout Goofy." 

"We can do that," I tell her.  "But first, we should
talk about Uncle Sam some more." 

"Daddy."  Molly tries to tug her hand away from me,
but I hold on tight. 

"Or we could discuss Goofy's genus and species right
now, and worry about Uncle Sam later," I amend. 

My daughter gives me a perplexed look.  "Goofy's
what?" 

"Genus and--Never mind.  Ask your mother to explain
the animal kingdom to you."  I frown for a moment as a
thought occurs to me.  "Don't ask her about birds and
bees, though." 

"Okay," she agrees, far too quickly for my liking. 
I'll have to warn Donna so she's not blindsided by
Molly piping up with "Daddy told me to ask you about
birds and bees" at some inopportune moment. 

I frown a little harder.  I may have made a tactical
error. 

Molly gives my hand an impatient tug.  "I wanna make
sure Goofy's a dog." 

"How are we going to do that?" I ask absently, still
concentrating on Uncle Sam and the birds and the bees.
 And how maybe I shouldn't link those two things in my
mind like I did just then. 

"We have to ask him," Molly answers. 

That sounds reasonable.  I've talked to countless
stuffed animals, inanimate objects, and imaginary
friends in the past four years; what's one more? 
"Okay," I nod.  "That's a good idea, Molly." 

Her face positively radiates happiness.  "Really,
Daddy?" 

"Of course," I answer automatically.  I'm not going to
be the one to make that expression of pure bliss
disappear. 

"We can really go ask him?" 

"Yes, Molly, we can really go ask him." 

Molly hurls herself at me, her arms winding around my
neck, and it takes me a moment to realize--"Wait; *go*
ask him?" 

"Yes," Molly mumbles happily into my shoulder.  She's
bouncing a little in her excitement, her little foot
digging into my leg. 

I have a very bad feeling about this.  "Go where?" 

"To Goofy's house," Molly answers, as if this answer
should be patently obvious. 

I close my eyes, bracing for it.  "Where does Goofy
live?" 

Don't say Florida.  Don't say-- 

"Florida!" 

Oh, shit. 

*** 

THE END 

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