Even in the summer months, when my son’s skin darkens from a milky mocha to rich hot chocolate, I don’t register that his skin hue is different from mine. Sure, we’ve talked about it a few times in a factual manner. Once, while watching "Barnyard: The Original Party Animals" he said, "Those cows have all different skins like we do in our family."

"Good," I thought. "He gets it. Enough said."

But I forget that despite our downplaying of his brown-ness, it is already a part of his 5-year-old identity. Yesterday, Kai saw Barack Obama on the evening news and said, "O’Back Barama is going to be a president and he has brown skin like me."

I am glad he will grow up believing that someone with brown skin could just as easily be the president as a white guy (or gal), but it occurred to me that Kai, who was born in Guatemala, cannot run for president someday. Suddenly, I had so many thoughts running through my mind, but  all I could say was, "Right on!" and flip the channel.