I'm not one for confrontation, but I am a mom. Which means the minute I hear unnecessary bickering or whining over nonsense or rudeness, I have to shut it down. Chris Wallace, with all of his accolades and achievements and great glasses, is not a mom, and I just... ack. I feel like his "I need to step in here" sensor is really lacking. Look, let a mom moderate the next debate, please. We would've had President Donald Trump apologizing with a demure, "No, we don't act that way in this house," and former Vice President Joe Biden walking away for some quiet time by now.
Did you hear Trump accusing Biden of being "last or almost last" in his college class? Forget sitting quietly, shuffling papers, and hoping I could get my children back on track with an answer about who spilled chocolate syrup all over the floor like Wallace did. Moms would shut. That. Down.
I would've clapped my hands until they both looked at me. "Hey! Hey! We do not talk down to people in this house. We do not make people feel like they are less than. We do not insinuate that people are not smart. Apologize. Now."
To his credit, Wallace has tried to get everyone to calm down. I don't know how many times I've heard him say, "Mr. President," hoping Trump would stop talking and interrupting Biden to listen, but if this was a drinking game, I would be under the coffee table with an empty bottle of wine by now. He's too lax. He's the dad watching Sunday football and not wanting to get too involved lest he get roped into making someone a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or having to divvy up the Play-Doh so everyone gets their fair share. He's hoping his "hey, hey, hey" under his breath will get everyone to listen, and look, it's not happening.
We need a mom up there.
"You asked him a question," Wallace interjects when Biden is trying to respond to Trump and Trump is... you know. Being Trump. Nope. We've run out of time here, Wallace. We can't wait for our children to just do the right thing when they've gone this far off the path.
A mom would look Trump in the eye. "Eyes on me, please," she'd start. "What do we do in these moments?" And then she'd start singing Daniel Tiger. "When you can't get what you want, stomp three times! And make yourself feel better."
Several times throughout the debate, Wallace had to remind Trump, "Sir, that question was for Vice President Biden."
A reminder! Such a kind way to talk to someone unhinged. Someone who needs a nap, a bowl of Goldfish, and an episode of Elmo — in that order. You're dealing with sociopaths here, there is no time for niceties like this.
"Was I talking to you?" a mom would say to the older child trying to interrupt the younger child's retelling of the fight that left someone with a bloody nose on the trampoline. "You'll get your turn for your side of the story. Sit down and be. Quiet." (Naturally, "be quiet" is said in the deep, back-of-the-throat voice usually reserved for children acting up in church pews, at the formal Thanksgiving dinner your great-aunt insists on hosting in her dining room full of priceless china, and the PTA meetings. All with a smile on your face, obvs.)
"I hate to raise my voice," Wallace says at one point. Oh do you! You must be new here, Wallace. We have to raise our voices to get some action going, and we don't really hate it. It's the only way anyone will take you seriously sometimes, and when you have someone like Trump, who will. Not. Stop. Talking, you have to raise your voice. Raise it louder! Stand up! Threaten to take away Twitter and iPhones! Be a mom about this, Wallace. America is begging you.
