Like I am trying to get up to 13 mailboxes (see "Running") and my youngest child, The Athlete, will say: “Hey. I saw these really cool tennis shoes I want for school. Erica’s mom got them to train for the 10-K she is running in next month.”
Or I will be out on the deck talking with The Overachiever, and I will excuse myself to go to bed because I have to leave for work at 6:45 a.m. the next day, and she will say, as if she just HAPPENED to remember it at that moment: “Charles’ mom is crazy. She left the house at 4:15 a.m. yesterday to go to the gym before work.”
Even though she is very smart, sometimes that Overachiever has some bad timing. Like the other day when I was stomping around the house carrying a laundry basket on the day of the week I hate the very most: Cleaning Day.
The Overachiever pops her head into the bathroom while I am scrubbing the toothpaste globs off the porcelain from some slob who didn’t learn that you have to run the water during the part where you spit and says: “Did you know that Mike’s mom had like four cleaning ladies quit on her because she likes to clean so much that she would follow them around and try to clean with them when they were at her house.”