I read a story recently in our local newspaper about a girl who is pursuing a career in the circus arts. At thirteen, she is training hours a day, bending her body as far as her will and ligaments will allow. Her family has moved from the rural county where we live into the heart of San Francisco, a short bus ride from the circus school where their daughter works to master the skills needed to become an arial contortionist.

When I first read the article, I was perplexed. Why would a family uproot themselves to allow a child to pursue such an odd activity? This quote, though, from the girl's mother, struck me in the heart:

"I wonder, what would happen to a child who was passionate and you didn't support it? What kind of adult would that child become?"

From my earliest memories, my ambitions have been of the ordinary variety. I wanted to be a baker. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to have an average house with a big candy dish on the coffee table. I wanted to grow up and have a couple of kids and bake some cakes and eat cellophane-wrapped butterscotch discs out of the fancy dish on my coffee table.

Oh, how I shot for the moon!

My sister always aimed a little higher. She wanted to be the tooth fairy. She wanted to be a ballerina. She wanted to be the lead in the school play. She wanted to be a famous author, and an actress, and a revered pianist... she's currently in Europe, pursuing her dream of being an opera singer. And I'm happy for her. I really, truly am. But I wouldn't chase that dream if I was offered the chance. I have all the cake and butterscotch and kids I ever wanted.

We did have one strange compulsion in common. We always ran for student body office, every year. And always for the Presidency. Every. Year. From probably fourth grade on.

The first year, it was just my sister. She ran, and won, I think. I know she won a few times, back before it became a popularity contest in middle school. She practiced a clever speech and made clever posters and won the election. Buoyed by this beginners' luck, she ran again and again. And inspired by her example, or perhaps out of my innate belief that I could do anything she could do, better, provided I actually applied myself, I began to run for office myself.

I remember wearing my baby blue corduroy jeans and a cream sweater to give my speech in 6th grade. The index cards with my notes were crushed in my hand as I delivered a flawless speech. I remember the feel of the creaky risers under my feet, and the metallic tang of the microphone, inches from my nose. I got the laughs. I connected with my classmates. I lost in a landslide.

So in 7th grade, I tried again. Lost. Eighth grade, new school. Ran the week after my first appearence on campus. Lost. My sister, at high school, was making her own run and losing.

I would like to look back and say that I was running as a joke, or because I felt pressured or obligated to. That's not the case, though. I ran, and my sister ran, because we honestly thought that we'd win. Every time. I don't know what we thought winning would bring to us, besides a title for our college applications. I personally wasn't all that motivated to make things better for my class, nor did I have any desire to rise in social standing. Truth be told, there was no prestige in being a class officer, no glamour to being a cheerleader. My senior class lost spirit week to the freshmen. Apathy reigned, and yet I stood again and again at the podium, campaigning.

Thinking back on all the campaigns, the practiced speeches, the outfits carefully selected and the posters hung, I wonder how my parents kept a straight face. How did they cheer for us again and again, when it was obvious to everyone else that we had a snowball's chance in hell of winning? I love them for their unflagging support of our curious passion for election season.

One of my campaigns featured the slogan "Everyone's Bigger, But No One's Better." Haaaa! My posters kept disappearing, and I secretly thought it was because people thought they were so clever. One of my running mates mumbled through his speech and won by a huge margin. I told jokes! I made really awesome campaign promises! And I lost. And I ran again the next year anyway. And I believed that I would have a real shot at it.

Perhaps this is why I'm such a good sport today. Or perhaps this merely illustrates the pigheadedness I possess.

After graduation, I gave up on running for office. My younger brother never entered an election until his senior year, when he leaped onto the stage and performed a spontaneous break-dance routine at the convention. He danced away as the first (and probably only) write-in, C-average student body president. That's about when I lost my faith in the electoral process, and when I started secretly wanting to learn to pop and lock.

When my children were all small babies, I stared into their faces and wished that they would have ordinary, achievable dreams. I wanted them to want small, just like me. I mean, I fully plan to sign them up for break dancing lessons as a contingency plan, but I thought it would be great if they wanted to be a little dreamer, just like me. I never hoped to raise an olympian, or a concert pianist, or a movie star.

As they grow, though, I see their dreams oozing out of their skin. Whose dreams are these? I don't want to be a rancher, or a paleontologist/construction person. I don't want to be "Mommy Soccer Monster" and eat cars. At this age, I'm directly involved in all the dreams. I have to buy the ranch. I have to drive my son to the dig. I have to eat the cars and growl like a 'soccer monster.' (Seriously, what the heck is up with that?) A few years from now, I realize that I will likely be the parent coloring yet another poster for another doomed election, laughing at the rehearsed jokes a hundred times, and standing at the back of the auditorium, eyes and video camera trained on my kid as they deliver another speech.

I've discovered a new little dream for myself. I want to be the mother that sees a passionate spark and helps nurture it along. I'll be able to put aside my own candy dish dreams and celebrate my children's fire and drive. Maybe they will end up leading perfectly ordinary lives. But on the off-chance that they want to pursue something more ambitious, I want to be supportive. Just as I can look into their faces and see the tiny infants, I can also squint into the future, and see the adults they may become.

Now, if we can just survive the 'election' years.