Newt Gingrich would be a poor president because his lips move when he counts.

I know that for a fact.

Now, call me naïve, but in this mad world a president should have a few skills to remain in control of the so-called free world. (Besides identifying potential security threats by their ability to speak French—the evil he recently accused Romney of.) 

I believe a president should:

1)  be subtle;

2)  be able to count without moving his lips;

3) not blush when a younger woman raises her eyebrows at him.

Newt Gingrich fails in all three. At least back in the summer of 1999 he couldn’t master these basic qualities, and he was Speaker of the House. (Counting up to 435 with his lips moving while blushing and worrying who spoke French.)

(I do believe that's his counting finger.)

My proof? I witnessed it. Our family was getting on a plane in Atlanta, headed to Washington DC to visit the in-laws. We had “only” five children at the time, aged 9 years down to 10 months. We moved methodically through crowded airports, my husband covered with carry-on bags and forging a path for our children behind him, obediently holding hands in a train. I brought up the rear carrying the baby to make sure no one derailed. We noticed a few people looking at our little entourage, but no one stared or pointed and shouted, “Freak family!” 

(Although I wouldn’t have minded because that probably would have cleared a wider path for my husband.)

We loaded on to the plane after the first class passengers, and there he was comfortably seated in the wide chairs—the middle-aged man with a shock of white hair. He glanced up at my husband as we worked our way down the aisle, then his eyes grew big as he noticed the train following closely behind. I couldn’t help but smirk as the man, more obvious than anyone we saw in that or any other airport, began to count. His thin lips made the obvious formations for, “One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . . Fi—”

That’s as far as he got, because I was holding number “five” as I approached his seat. 

His eyes met mine. 

I cocked me head and raised my eyebrows at him. 

The man turned bright red in embarrassment.

Cherry-like and Santa-ish.

An impressive contrast to his white hair. 

Yeah, a look something like this.

Then he suddenly became interested in the stack of pages on his lap. 

I chuckled all the way back to our seats, the last ones on the plane. (Hint to those flying with children: take those seats back by the engines. The loud roar will mesmerize your children in unconsciousness, akin to running a giant vacuum cleaner for a colicky baby.) 

As I sat down, my husband turned to me and said, “Did you notice Newt Gingrich sitting in first class? I think he noticed us.”

Oh yes. And I haven’t forgotten. 

I made Newt Gingrich blush.

Now if Gingrich can’t look me in the eyes without backing down, how would he handle Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, whose leer makes my skin crawl? 

The eyes seem a bit mismatched, as are the eyes of all good madmen . . .

Or meet the vacant stare of Kim Jong Un? 

He has no idea where he is . . .

Or confront Nancy Pelosi, who reminds me of my 8^th grade math teacher? (That’s not a good thing, by the way.)

"I just TOLD you the definition of an isosceles triangle! Are your ears PAINTED on?!"

I think I should be the proverbial litmus test in this maddening presidential race: the candidate who counts my children then faces me without blushing should win. 

Whoever can do that can handle dealing with Iran, North Korea, and anyone else who may be an incarnation of one’s childhood traumas.