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Winning The Right Race

As the girls in my daughter’s Y class jogged ’round the upstairs track, I craned to see my daughter in the pack.   That is until the pack went by and my daughter wasn’t among them.

Weird.

I waited.  Then looked down the track to the corner from where the others had come and there… with her brown, hearted jacket tied around her waist in a single knot and gliding like a butterfly was my daughter.

In absolutely no hurry.

“Go, honey!” I yelled.

And she waved.

“Run!” I shouted.  And she slowed to a putter, as if something might be wrong with me.

There clearly was.

Last night, the phone call from our daughter emanated excitement.  “We went roller skating,” she breathed.  “And guess what?”

I had no idea.

“I joined the race!”

“You did?” I exclaimed.  “How’d you do?”

And my daughter, the one who glides, the one who inhales flowers when there’s flowers to be smelled, beamed, “I finished LAST, mom…but I had a blast!”

And I couldn’t have been more proud.

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