It’s one of those nights you wish you had something pithy to say. You could wax poetic about Michelle Obama’s wardrobe, about the little girls’ poise, about their Grandma’s presence.
Honestly. I don’t know what I could add.
I kept reminding my kids (5, 3, 2) that history was unraveling before their eyes, but they were focused on the snacks at hand (Goldfish crackers, string cheese.) My one hope, Cooper, fell asleep at minute 6 of President Obama’s speech. Well, it was a long weekend for them, with their Grandpa up for a visit, a school holiday in honor of MLK, more snow than anyone predicted.
I am cynical about politics and politicians (as a Herald editorial page staffer I greeted such luminaries as Ted Kennedy and John Kerry, and was by nature unimpressed by either. Down-to-earth, and less-showy, Marty Meehan won my approval by far). As far as I’m concerned, politicians work for me. They don’t float on air; they don’t rise above.
That’s what struck me about Tuesday’s inauguration. I could talk to my children about the office, the moment, the history. But when I choked up at 12:01, all I could say is “Yes. Remember now.”
They won’t, of course.
I am cynical about politicians, flacks, those who make their living at this sort of thing.
But last Tuesday, I sort of hoped, it was different. This could be new.
I could be wrong.
Time will tell.