Something has happened recently in our household that turns the whole science behind DNA on its head. Our ten-year-old son has decided he’s a runner. For the last month, he’s been participating in 5K races and doing quite well.
How in the world could two people whose primary passion in life is watching grass grow produce a son who’s a runner? Now don’t get me wrong. Bob and I both feel running has its place. When being chased by a sabertooth tiger? Sure. When trying to get to Krispy Kreme before they shut the lights off and lock the doors? Absolutely. For a medal or a trophy? No way, no how.
Chris has become so passionate about running that he’s been encouraging me to join him. If you’re going to run marathons with your kids, you really ought to have them when you’re still young. Around the age of twelve would be about right. If I were twenty two, I’d have a prayer of keeping up with the child. As it is, I can only hope he’s still at the finish line when I finally crawl across long after all the other racers have gone home.
But I’m not the kind of mom who can tell her kids "no" when they’re passionate about something. That’s how I ended up playing three thousand consecutive games of Candyland when the boys were two. That’s how I ended up laying on the ground for days, pretending to be comatose when all three kids developed a passion for administering "first aid." And that’s why I’ve told Chris I’ll join him for a 5K as long as I can walk and not run.
Maybe with any luck, his passion will soon change to something Bob and I could more easily understand. Maybe we can introduce him to the comfortable front porch chairs where you have the best view to watch the grass get just a little taller.