Every year my kids' elementary school holds a race right before Thanksgiving. The first place runner in each grade gets to bring home an actual turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.
Every year my kids plot and scheme and dream and "train" so they can win the turkey.
Every year Grace comes in second place.
Second place winners bring home a pie. This makes mom very happy, because I love pie. This makes Grace very angry, because she hates pie.
Last night at dinner she began discussing strategy for the next Thanksgiving race.
"Argh! It's always Bernadette!!! No matter how hard I try, she ALWAYS beats me. She wins every single year!"
Joking, I responded, "Maybe this year she'll get sick right before Thanksgiving."
All three girls broke out in a chorus of "Mom! That's not very nice! How could you say that?"
Eric looked thoughtful. "Actually, let's find out what she's allergic to and then sneak it into her food. That way she'll FOR SURE get sick before the race, and Grace can win."
There was stunned silence around the table.
Grace: "Gosh, Eric, we don't want to kill her."
Eric: "Well, if she dies she won't ever beat you in a race again."
Mom: "Easy there, Satan."
Eric: "WHAT? I'm just sayin', it's one idea."
The parenting manuals didn't cover this. That will be the title of my book, if I ever get around to writing one. It pretty adequately sums up life at my house.
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