Every mother says their child is special, but from the very beginning I knew there was a little something extra in my beautiful 11 month old daughter, Abbie. Her eyes glowed with curiosity, always recognizing us when we walked into the room, following our every action with careful inquisitiveness – I could see her taking it all in. Sam and I just couldn’t wait to see what exciting developments were in store, and as every new mother knows, first words carry a lot of symbolic importance.
I can’t count the number of times we would hear her starting to pick up the building blocks of language, the”ooos” and “ahhs.” We would hang over her crib making encouraging suggestions (Sam, of course always with the “da da’s”), but she would always giggle and turn away or put her hand in her mouth. Then, yesterday, the most incredible thing happened.
I was bouncing Abbie on my knee, we were both laughing and laughing, when all of a sudden her face changed and became very grave, as if recalling President Obama’s non-citizenship. We locked eyes and in perfect urgent English she said “Get off at the Pico Street station, head Northwest on Pico towards Flower street, blend into the crowd.” I couldn’t believe my ears! “Turn right on Figueroa street,” she went on, “enter through the main entrance and past security. Do not bring any weapons. All will be provided for. Join with the energy of the crowd, wear appropriate dress to blend in but not so much that you stick out. A ‘Make America Great Again’ hat should do the trick.”
I yelled “Sam! You gotta hear this! Abbie is talking!” She didn’t pause.
“Make your way to the third level on the south side, seat section 316. There will be a door labeled ‘Maintenance Access’ next to the lemonade stand. Make sure you are not being followed. The door will be unlocked. After several flights of stairs you will find yourself on a catwalk. A third of the way across there will be a suitcase. You will be at an approximate 45 degree angle to the stage. Inside the suitcase will be a .308 Remington Defender Concealable Bolt Action Sniper Rifle. Assemble the gun and attach the suppressor. Be sure to wear the provided gloves.”
Sam came running from the yard “What’d she…?”
“Shhh!!!” I said. Abbie hadn’t once broken my gaze.
“Take your time,” she said, “let him get through the usual pageantry, make sure the buffoon is good and heated up, but do not linger. Center the sights on his chest – aim for the American flag lapel. I’d tell you to shoot through his disgusting toupé or blast him right in his orange jowls, but it is critical that you do not fail. Breathe deep and pull the trigger. The gun will do the rest. When you have taken the shot, wipe the rifle down and leave it. Make haste, but in all likelihood you will not escape. If you are caught before the crowd is able to beat you to death, take the cyanide pill we have implanted in your left back molar. They must never know who sent you. History may forget your name, or paint you as a cowardly assassin, but even if they don’t know the measure of your sacrifice, your children, and your children’s children, and their children’s children, will forever be in your debt. You must destroy Trump.”
We were dumbstruck. “But Abbie,” I said, “don’t you want to get rid of all those pesky Mexican rapists?”
All she did was laugh and laugh.
Maybe I don’t think my daughter’s politics have matured yet, but she sure is a special little girl.