1.  If your husband spends his Sunday morning running a marathon and you spend the same Sunday morning chasing him around the city, with two kids and you hold an eight year old on your shoulders for an hour, you will both be sore.

2.  If you’re driving to and from mile markers for hours, you will have to stop at Tim Horton’s for breakfast and Wendy’s for lunch.  You know, out of necessity.  Your husband, on the other hand, will run 26.2 miles on two bananas and some peanut butter crackers.

3.  When you spend 45 minutes creating a great sign that says things like, “Keep it up!” and “Be strong!”, don’t be surprised if your son sees your finished project and decides that your sign is the perfect paper on which to stamp a pink butterfly.

4.  Don’t be shocked when you walk nine blocks to your viewing spot and as soon as you arrive, your son tells you he has to poop.

5.  Which is why you should always store a training potty and kitty litter bags in the back of your SUV.

6.  Then you will count your blessings that your eight year old is still small enough to use it.

7.  Much in the same way that when you have been playing in the ocean, you can later close your eyes and still feel the waves…when you watch a marathon full of people go by, you will later close your eyes and see runners.

8.  When your husband approaches the finish line and your daughter sneaks through the fence to run the last stretch with him, you will feel so much pride that your heart might burst.

9.  Then you’ll watch your husband complete his race to the sound of applause and cheers of the crowd.

10.  And you will listen, then cringe, as the race announcer mispronounces his name.

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The other night we were visiting with a friend during dinner at his house, when my eight year old son jumped into the conversation and called our 39 year old friend by his first name.  It was something along the lines of, “Sure, Chad.”

Although we allow the kids to call our oldest friends by their first name, we have a rule that most people go by Mr. or Mrs. followed by their last name.  It keeps things easy and consistent.

My husband quickly corrected our boy and said, “You need to address adults as Mr. or Mrs., buddy.  It shows respect.”

And, as our son turned to leave the room he rolled his eyes at his dad, let out a big sigh and said, “Whatever, Mike.”

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So, you know how you go to work in the school cafeteria in your $100 shoes that you bought because your plantar fasciitis was really acting up, and then suddenly the hip you’ve had problems with since you were 19 years old decides to make you start limping like you’re elderly, and then you go home to find your one year old dog got your bottle of Ambien off of the counter and REMOVED THE CHILDPROOF LID, and you think that you can’t call the vet because she will insist that you bring her in and they’ll pump her stomach and it will cost you $800 and the dog will still die, so you look it up online and see that you should induce vomiting, so you give the dog some Hydrogen Peroxide and then she vomits the entire world in your backyard while you’re walking around holding your ears and singing, “La-la, I can’t hear you making that hacking sound and re-eating your own vomit”, and then you go pick up your kids at school and your son has a fever and he cries so hard that he throws up too.

Yeah, me too.

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I’m going to allow myself to be conceited, because this is my blog and I’m my own editor and I can have an ego if I want to. Neener-neener.

You know how everyone sits down at a job interview and says, “I’m a people person”? Well, I really am a people person. I’m an extrovert, a talker, a social butterfly, if you will. I love people.

And, I hate ignorance.

I have friends of all different races and colors and beliefs. I love them, not despite our differences, but sometimes because of them. I am doing my best to teach my children the same thing.

This likely wasn’t evident when my son called two Muslim woman “pirates” and it surely wasn’t apparent yesterday at one of our favorite Chinese restaurants.

Because it had to seem that we are breeding nothing but intolerance when my son heard a woman speaking Chinese to her child, looked at her and said, “Uh, we’re not in China.”

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