If Mama ain't happy... beware the veto!

"Mom, has President Bush vetoed anything?" Sport asked me on the way home from piano lessons.

"Uhhh, I think he vetoed some stem cell legislation," I said, a little stunned by the switch in conversation from playground antics to politics. "Why do you ask?"

"We're learning about presidents." And, I assumed, the power of the presidential veto. He went on to entertain me with trivia about Taft, Adams, and FDR.

LegoGuy and Sport get a hefty amount of political exposure due to the conversations their father and I have during dinner each night. We try to come up with one thing to share with the family, and I usually throw something out I heard on NPR during my drive home, which sparks a discussion with SO while the boys play with their food and throw napkins at each other. Over the years, they've learned enough to add a little something to the conversation. Sport, who knows how I feel about one possible Democratic presidential hopeful, saw the cover of a book I'd been reading. His eyes widened.

"Mom, it's Barack Obama! This is the answer to all your hopes and dreams."

Okay, all idols have feet of clay, but, as I told JrCat at work last week, let me cling to this thimbleful of hope. It's all I have to get me through the last 2 years of the Bush Nightmare (2000-2008).

Speaking of nightmares, last night I made another attempt to teach Scrabble to the boys. I have no memory of my own parents teaching me to play. Perhaps I sprung from my mother's body clutching a dictionary in one hand and a Scrabble rack in the other. Regardless, no matter how hard I try, I can't remember any lessons. It's as if I've always known how to play. Trying to teach the art of Scrabble strategy, however, doesn't come naturally to me at all. My level of patience, much lower at the end of the day then at the beginning, was getting very, very low.

After LegoGuy drew 5 E's from the bag, he was ready to throw in the towel.

"I give up! This is a sucky hand!"

"You can't give up in the middle of a game just because you don't like your letters. That's rude. You can pass and get a new hand if you want."

"A-N-N-E." Sport laid down his letters.

"You can't use proper names, remember? I've told you this before."

"BEANYZOO."

"LegoGuy, that's not even a word. You can't put a Y at the end of BEAN; it runs into ZOO. We've gone over this a hundred times."

He giggles.

"Trade you a D for a U," Sport whispers to his brother, and tiles slide across the table in a careful exchange.

"Doesn't work that way."

"I've got nothing." LegoGuy tilts his letters toward me. DEEFERA.

"Move the letters around until you see something."

"I did. There's nothing."

Quickly, I switch the D for the F.

"It's right there. FEEDER. See it? You've got to keep moving the tiles around until you see something. Or try to play off the end or the beginning of a word that's already in play."

By this time, I know I'm about to lose it, especially when Sport throws a fit when he can't find anyplace to go.

"That's it! Game over." In moments, the game is back in the box. The boys open their mouths to protest, but know by the expression on my face that resistance is futile.

A presidential veto doesn't hold a candle to the power of a maternal one.