"Daddy, why do the 'publicans hate you?"

Well, so much for this lovely article about the War on Drugs. I toss the Post aside and turn my attention to my five year old son, Joss. He's a serious little boy, with curly, light brown hair, an adorable button nose, and bright blue eyes framed by a tiny pair of glasses. I learned the hard way to take his questions seriously; he's a little scientist at heart, willing to experiment to find the answer himself is none is forthcoming. He's got a scar on his hand from the time he wanted to know why the burners were red. "What are you talking about, Joss?"

He points to the TV, which is muted, but tuned to CNN. Of course. Tuesday is my day to work from home, which means I spend the morning on the phone while Joss is at kindergarten and Molly's at school. Once I pick up Joss at noon, I catch up on the week's papers, maybe some magazines if the latest Mother Jones has arrived, then entertain Joss--usually with intricate explanations of how various household appliances work--until Molly's school bus arrives. The two kids generally amuse each other by harassing our long-suffering dog, Chip (short for Molly's memorable name for him: Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough). That keeps them busy until Donna gets home, and I get to watch Inside Politics and Crossfire in peace.

This evening, Molly and her mother have gone on an excursion to some sort of dance shoe place, because Molly needs ballet shoes. I offered to take her, but she gave me an eloquent look, tossed her long blonde hair in a gesture that is disturbingly like her mother's, and said, "Dad, you hate ballet."

"I don't hate ballet shoes," I countered reasonably.

"You don't know a tap shoe from a pointe shoe."

Fair point. "Do I have to know that? I mean, isn't your mother's or my presence really only required so that we can provide the credit card?"

Molly laughed at me, threw her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. Her open affection hasn't changed since her younger days, but she's lost the childish baby fat and shot up into a slim, graceful, energetic nine year old. "Mom has a prettier card than you do. It has baby seals on it." She still has a soft spot for animals.

And so Donna, Molly, and the Nature Conservancy Mastercard headed for Dance Fever, while Joss and I stayed to hold down the fort. And, apparently, discuss partisan politics.

The pundits are arguing, and the closed-captioners are having a hell of a time keeping up. Lots of typos and abbreviations. "Repubs targeting Douglas-Radford because they still hate Josh Lyman-- CARLSON: No one hates Josh Ly-- BEGALA: Please! The RNC spent (crosstalk)--"

I flick off the TV and pull Joss up onto the couch beside me. He stares up at me, his big blue eyes magnified by the tiny wire-rims he wears for watching television and learning to read. "Do you remember what the Republicans believe in, Joss?"

"Tax cuts for the rich," he answers back. I swear, this kid has the memory of an elephant. He frowns a little, his nose wrinkling slightly. "Are we rich, Daddy?"

Hmmmm... "Yes, we are. Hold out your hands."

A visual learner, Joss eagerly holds out his small hands, palms up.

"Count to ten with your fingers," I instruct.

"One, two," he says, concentrating on his fingers as he counts. "Ten!" He grins up at me, proud of himself.

"Very good," I tell him with a proud smile. "Now lets imagine for a second that those ten people are all the Americans there are."

He frowns. "There are 278 million 'mericans, Daddy."

See? He can't possibly comprehend the concept of "million," yet he asked Donna how many people lived in D.C., and she faithfully recited census statistics, including the number of Americans. The memory on this kid is scary. "Yes, there are. But let's pretend that there are ten, okay? There are ten Americans, one for each of your fingers."

His eyes light up and he stares reverently down at his hands. "My fingers are 'mericans," he says to himself.

I ruffle his hair affectionately. "Yeah, buddy. That's right. Your fingers are Americans. Your mommy, Molly, you, and me? We have more money that eight other Americans. Show me eight."

Joss's little mouth hangs open a little as he decides how many fingers to fold down. After bending down the thumb and pinky of his left hand, Joss gives me an expectant look. "Eight?"

"That's right. Our family has more money than that many other Americans."

Joss pops all ten fingers up again, examining the backs of his hands. "That's a lot."

"Yeah," I tell him. "It is."

"We're rich."

"Yeah. We are. But we're Democrats, so we feel real guilty about that."

"Josh," Donna says, exasperated, from behind me. "What are you telling him?"

Molly rounds the edge of the couch and flings herself down beside me. The plastic bag in her hand lands half on my lap. She glances at it, then tosses it onto the coffee table. I lean my head back and Donna appears above me. She leans down and kisses me.

"We're back," she announces, unnecessarily. "Now what are you telling Joss?"

"Your son," I explain, "wanted to know why I am not the favorite person of the Republican Party."

Donna frowns, worried. "Why does he think--?"

"Tucker Carlson," I answer promptly.

"I could strangle him with his stupid bow-tie," Donna mutters, too low, I hope, for the kids to hear. From the grin on Molly's face, I think she caught it.

"Joss," Molly leans over me to address her little brother, "the Republicans don't like Mom and Dad 'cause they have too much money and we want to give it to the government to help the people who don't have enough money."

Pronoun imprecision aside, that's slightly over-simplified, but true enough. I sling an arm around my daughter and pat her back, turning my attention back to Joss. "Get it?"

"Like when I share my toys with Molly?" he asks, pointing to the large pile of books, Hot Wheels, stuffed animals, and other detritus in the corner, as if we were unsure what toys he could be referring to.

"Yes," Donna tells him, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she slips past, circling the couch to sit on the armchair nearby. "Democrats want to share their toys with the people who don't have any, or whose toys are broken and useless. The Republicans want better and better toys, and they want to keep the toys for themselves."

Joss thinks that over, still watching his fingers carefully. "Sharing is good," he decides. "'publicans are mean."

"A lot of the time, yeah," I agree.

"That's why Mommy and Daddy work for Aunt Susan," Molly tells Joss. She really loves to explain things, and Joss worships his big sister enough to listen to her talk. Sure, they fight, but he'll do almost anything she tells him (which is good, because she is also pretty bossy). Some days, their relationship reminds me painfully of the way I looked up to Joanie.

I catch Donna's eyes, and she smiles softly at me. She didn't have nearly the relationship with her sister that I had with mine, but I think she knows how hard and how wonderful at the same time it is for me to watch my kids play together.

10.20.04