They race to the breakfast table, to the store and to the post office. They race each other, they race me (even when I’m not actually racing them) and they race their toys. On particularly frightening days, they attempt to race through parking lots (my least favorite kind of racing).
Frankly, I’m worn out.
Why can’t they race to see who will be the best behaved, most complimentary to Mom or finish their brocoli first?
At this rate the only thing I’m racing towards is old age.