In Russia, I hide in my mother, and she hides in her mother and she hides in her mother and she hides in her mother and she hides in her mother. In a fictional pink land, I can be a president, weird, writer, physicist, doctor, lawyer, or judge

Sometimes I am open, Sometimes I am close. I keep your belongings, Even if they need hanging.

I rest in shadows, quiet and flat, Wake up to swing or flutter at that. In stadiums bright, I help dreams soar, In caves at night, I search for more. I’m held in hands or spread in flight, One brings the game, one rules the night. What am I, fitting both paths I’m at?

A simple delight, a pleasant clink Made from wood or bone or metal, linked Motion plays a soothing tune The wind given another voice to croon What am I?

America had four main types... until one cost them so much money to mint that they quit. What am I?