My parents are visiting. Over lunch, Skylar was talking politics with them. "We might have a woman President," she said, excitedly. My mother replied, with some trepidation, that she prefers another Democrat. "But he's African-American," I added. At this point, Skylar launched into her self-invented conception of affirmative action. "Do you know what would really be great to have for President, Grandma and Opa? An African-American woman in a wheelchair." My father leaned conspiratorially across the dining room table, waiting to speak until Skylar had become absorbed in a one-on-one exchange with her grandmother. Then he spoke, softly, a wry smile playing across his face. "I guess the only question, then, is, 'Who's going to push Condi down the stairs?'"