Moms could bring “new day” to America

When the skies above turn brown like mud and the national blood pressure spikes, you know it’s here. Yup. It’s Campaign 2012, and we’re up to our knees.

It’s getting ugly out there. The only folks remaining calm with no blood pressure blips are those living outside the reach of the national news. According to the last census, that would be those two woodsmen living in the wilds of Wyoming who reportedly “sleep like babies” every night. Of course they do.

If there’s one thing the Good Lord forgot to install in a weary electorate, it’s that one hormone. Women get it, but only after performing the herculean task of pushing a squirming little package the size of a muskmelon through a canal the size of a drinking straw. It’s a wonderful thing because it helps us forget the pain of birthing the tiny melons.

This is why women can recount hair-raising labor and delivery stories with blinding smiles, radiant with the glow of motherhood. It’s also why the little doobers ever have any siblings. And that’s no lie.

If you think about it, electing a president is not unlike giving birth. You might think you know what you’re getting, but you can’t be sure. By the time you figure it out, it’s too late to “stuff ‘em back in,” so to speak. You’ve got to wait for the next election cycle when the skies turn brown, the BP spikes and folks are begging for a hormone shot.

Which is where we’re at right now. Once again, they’re throwing mud and trading punches. And once again they’re spinning things so bad the voters are dizzy, reeling like drunken sailors on couches and La-Z-Boys across America. Even a rubber mallet is sounding good; something, anything to help us forget the pain of months of nonstop political ads.

That’s why, from my amateur perspective, it would behoove politicians from both sides to hit us with those shots. After all, a circulating petition for the whole kaboodle to investigate the international space station – on site – would be a big distraction.

At any rate, it’s enough to make this mother of four occasionally bickering sons stand up and shout, “Ladies and gentlemen, policy wonks, lend me your ears!” Whereupon I would apply the technique that never failed to inspire proper behavior in our country church, fifth bench down, gospel side – the earlobe twist.

Maybe that’s what’s missing in politics today. Perhaps it’s time to tap into that great natural resource, America’s mothers, to restore some law and order.

Mothers, you see, don’t take guff. Mothers don’t pull punches. Mothers wade right in, sort it out and set it straight. And we’d start with the fighting.

“Now look here,” a mom would say. “It’s okay to disagree. But, by cracky, you will be polite.” This with a chubby lobe pinched firmly in each hand.

“Name calling’s out. You, after all, are not four, this is not the sandbox and he (or she) is not the cat that buried a small surprise. He’s not.” Here, she’d peer meaningfully at the wriggling senator/pundit/operative/candidate.

“To help you remember that you’re no longer four, you will stay in this room right here and make horrid faces just like you did when you were four. Go on. Stick out your tongues. Cross your eyes. Wiggle your fingers in your ears and get it out of your system.”

I know this works because an older mother said so. She did it with her kids, and it never failed. By the time they were done, they’d be laughing like African hyenas, differences forgotten.

That’s how it would look if the mothers went to Washington. There’d be a great, big session, closed doors, on the floor. We’d gather the House and Senate, the President, the Veep and all the hopefuls, and we’d turn them loose.

The rest of the country could catch the action on C-SPAN. The sight of John Boehner and Nancy Pelosi exchanging crazy faces or Mr. Ryan making bunny ears behind Mr. Biden could bring the comedic relief the country is craving. It could also restore the civility we need in the not-a-sandbox on The Hill.

I didn’t say it would. I said it could.

That’s what could happen if we sent the moms. Who also know that nothing brings people together like sharing milk and cookies. And that’s why we’d have a congressional snack break with plenty of Oreos and tumblers of milk. This would come afterwards, followed by naps.

Little Schrock knows how it works. So do his kindergarten friends. After you eat, you unfold your mat, and you lay your tired self down. Then the lights go out and the music plays low.

Which is how we’d conclude that session with the cranky politicians. After their snack, they’d unfold their mats and lay their tired selves down as the music plays low. A weary, grateful nation would follow suit. It would be nap time in America. Skies would clear, blood pressures would drop and a new day would dawn, thanks to America’s moms.