Anyway, Mack was registered for the 5k race at this school. Mack has run several 5k’s before, but he hadn’t done one in about six months. So we were both a little nervous before the race. He actually told me he had butterflies in his stomach, to which I replied, “Good.”

The race started and off they went down the street. I puttered around, preparing my camera and finding my “cheering spot” on the side of the road. I kept checking my watch, waiting for the first runners to appear back up the course. It’s so annoying, when you are at a race, how bored you get while you stand there waiting for the runners to come along. Must remember to bring doughnuts next time.

I had a time in my head when I expected to see Mack at the two-mile point, so I was surprised to see him chugging up the hill towards me about four minutes ahead of schedule. At first I couldn’t believe it was him, even with the system we have in place – Mack always wears red when he races, so I can pick him out of the crowd from a distance. I just got tired of cheering, “There he is! Go, Mack! Oh, that’s not him. Hold on, there he is. Yay, Mack! Wait, nope.” So now he has Race Red and it cuts down quite a bit on my cheering for the competition.

Mack looked to be in pretty good shape when he came by, but I figured he wouldn’t be able to keep that pace up for the final mile. So imagine my surprise when he came back towards the finish line, still more than three minutes ahead of his personal best. He was chasing down a kid in front of him who had the approximate size and dimensions of someone in his age group (eight and under). I was running along the path to the side, cheering madly, as he passed the kid and then passed a teenager right before the line, finishing in a new best time of 24:07.

I came running up as the race staff member was putting Mack’s participation medal over his head, just in time to hear the man say, with tension in his voice, “Here, move over here.”

I realized that my little thoroughbred was vomiting chocolate Pop-Tart all over the finish line. He kept going until his stomach was empty, as I tried to coerce him to move away from the finish. A school nurse and another volunteer converged on him, checking his eyes, lowering him to the ground and procuring water. Other parents were looking on with concern and asking, “Is he okay?”

Mack was fine within minutes, and very proud of his great new personal record. I was proud of him, too, but I felt badly. Because when I saw him throwing up, my very first thought was how awesome it was that he had pushed himself so hard that he made himself sick with effort. My second thought was, “Gross.” My third thought was that I needed to tell him, for the future, that if he is going to throw up after a race he needs to move away from the finish and find a bush or a trash can.

Fourth was, “Oh, I guess I should be concerned.”

Which probably makes me a bad Mommy. But my kid is a heck of a runner.

All went smoothly until the very end when I told the ladies to go wash up in the restroom as they both were wearing a fair amount of breakfast. When they returned to the table, Tate was barefoot and Cat slapped a soaking wet pair of her sister’s flip-flops down on the table directly next to my unfinished sandwich.

“Tate, why are you not wearing shoes?” I asked. “You know you are not allowed to go barefoot in a restaurant. What on earth are you thinking? Don’t you know that isn’t sanitary?” As I peppered her with questions, I grabbed the shoes.

“Well Mom, my shoes were in the toilet and I thought it would be LESS sanitary to put them back on” she replied staring at my hands that were holding the shoes in question.

“Ummmm….what?”

“My shoes fell into the the toilet, I knew you would think that was unsanitary, so I didn’t put them back on. I brought them to you instead.”

“Yes, and put them next to my breakfast. I see that now. WHY???? Why did you do that?”

“We knew you would want to wash them mommy. You know, to get the icky germs off before I put my shoes back on. But you can finish your sandwich first.”

Curiosity piqued, I closed down my work email and started downstairs. Tate met me on the way. “Cat just threw up Mom. A LOT. ALL over the kitchen. It’s gross but impressive.”

She was accurate. On all counts.

As I waded (literally) into the mess to begin clean-up, Tate started rattling off a list of things she wanted as gifts for her upcoming birthday. Irritated, I asked “Tate, can’t you see that I am in the middle of something? And that it isn’t particularly pleasant?”

“Of course I can Mom,” she said. “You are cleaning up Cat’s barf. She thought you needed more romance, but I thought you could use a distraction.”