I lifted you up so that you could open the white mailbox. You pulled out several envelopes, mostly junk mail. You frowned, irritated to find there was nothing for you. I took the mail and handed you a postcard offering a fantastic deal on carpet cleaning. "I think this one's for you," I said, closing the hatch.
You grabbed the neon green card in your hand and started to run back up the driveway. "I'm gonna win!" you called over your shoulder. Everything is a competition lately. I walked slowly into the garage, intending to let you get to the door first. You stopped mid-stride and spun around, your new spring dress fluttering around your legs. You put your marker-streaked hand in mine and grabbed my fingers, pulling me into a run. We reached the door at the same time. "Mama, we both winned!" you yelled. We laughed: me, because I have a better understanding of how races (and verb tenses) are supposed to work, and you, because you were genuinely thrilled about our mutual victory.
"We sure did," I responded, and unlocked the door.