The super delegate

While Daddy's past two weeks revolved around people named Obama and Clinton, Cap'n Quinn was hanging out in Amish country, spreading a little cuteness around.

Daddy wonders whether cuteness is a better campaign tactic than resplendent oratory or a sound health care policy.

Quinn certainly won the Amish vote. Maybe it will work for Barack.

Our little hero is back now, and Daddy wonders whether there are some progressive qualities in air travel, as if time spent at 30,000 feet helps strengthen the legs or locate a center of gravity or mature hair follicles. Because the good Cap'n came back from his week-and-a-half trip to Grandma and Grandpa Smith's house with a nearly-full head of hair and an unbending confidence on two feet.

Mommy left with a baby. She came back with a little boy.

I'm not surprised that she may not notice all this the way I do. These changes happened slowly, before her eyes, at a pace that's impossible to track without the aid of elapsed time.

That time elapsed for Daddy slowly. He missed his best buddy.

But Quinn is back now, and Daddy finds himself hearing a lot these days about ballots and delegates.

And super delegates.

Super, like the little guy running around our house on two feet.

The one with a full head of hair.












Hanging out with Great-grandma Crissman.












Keeping an eye on Mommy.












"Yeah, I'm handsome. What's it to ya?"












Fun with Grandma Smith.












The dirty laundry.