What I learned

This past weekend, I learned it is NOT a good idea to accept the challenge of a foot race from my four-year-old son. I came to this conclusion after a series of mistakes on my part. The first mistake, I'm sad to say, was the result of my foolish pride.

We were at the church Saturday night and I was pulling song sheets for Sunday morning when, on the way to the photocopier, my son, Benen, asked, "You wanna race?" A strange feeling overtook me and I was struck with the desire to show my child just how fast his mother REALLY was. None of that let-them-win-you're-so-fast crap. I wanted to FLY; I wanted to see the unbridled awe and adoration in his little face. I was gonna win his admiration with my lightning fast speed and agility.

Mistake number two. I conveniently forgot that the last time I had sprinted was in junior high, when they force you to participate in Track and Field. I found out my four (and a half) year-old son is *almost* faster than me. I was REALLY having to work. What I thought would be simple, quickly turned into a fierce competition. I hate to lose.

Mistake number three. In our final race for the front doors I yelled out, "Quick Benen! Run down the stairs!" And then it hit me - that's not the kind of thing a *good* mother would say. So I quickly amended it with a follow up, "Be careful!" By this time he was half-way down and winning.

Mistake number four. Finding myself behind, I decided to show off a little and leaped down the remaining four steps, with a little side twist thrown in for flair. I landed with a solid thump.

Mistake number five. I planted my feet, completely forgetting that the upper half of my body was still being carried by my forward momentum. I was left in a mad scramble, trying to get my feet to catch up with the rest of me, which by then was headed for impact. I did a nice little slide-and-dive on the carpet in our church foyer. I have the rug burns on both knees to prove it.

Benen won the race.