Genes

My husband always says to me, “He’s definitely your son,” when referring to Cameron’s forgetful and emotional behavior. But yesterday he had a different reason to say such. Yesterday Cameron had a track meet, and because of weather and other commitments only about a couple dozen kids showed up (unlike the usual hundred or so), so the kids could run as many events as they wanted. Cameron decided to do ALL of them. He ran the 55 meters, then the 400, next the 100, then the 800 and finally the 200 meters. And he managed to run around in between each race cheering on the other runners. Oh yes, he’s definitely my son.

Now Max on the other hand….I know I birthed him, but I constantly question if he’s my son. Episode in the car today:
Max is spitting…and spitting…and spitting.
“Max stop spitting!”
“Why?” he asked in between spits.
“Because that’s gross. Now stop!”
He stops for a couple seconds, then says, “I spit one more time.” And he proceeds to do so.
Then he says, “Mommy, you spit.”
“No, Max, I’m not spitting.”
“Why not? It’s fun. You should spit.”
Ugh!