I told my sons yesterday that their grandparents had had quite a day Saturday. “They got to meet Bill Clinton.”
“Again?” they mocked. “Big deal, they’ve met him, like, three times.”
This happens to be true. Once, as a candidate for the Democratic nomination in 1991, he attended a small gathering of environmentalists at their home. Again, in the last year of his Presidency, they, along with my husband and myself (pregnant with our first child), waited in line in the heat of a crowded room packed with others for our photo op.
Those photos have been done, and seen, and remarked upon, again and again. I get it. They aren’t impressed by presidential name-dropping. Good for them.
But they aren’t immune to being wowed. Yes, they are L.A. kids, oh-so-sophisticated and worldly and used to star sightings. But I know how to get their hearts pumping.
I continued with their grandparents’ Saturday itinerary. “After they saw President Clinton they went to the Clippers game and sat next to Blake Griffin’s parents.”
Their heads whipped to face me. “They did WHAT??!?!?!!!”
Let wonkier kids worry about politics. Someone’s got to keep the NBA going strong for the next generation.
(And it didn’t matter one whit to Emmett that he’d already met Mrs. Griffin.)