Saturday was the first cross-country meet of the season. My oldest is eight years old now, which means he gets to run a mile instead of a half-mile. He seemed to be not too concerned about the extra distance, at least not until Saturday morning.

That’s when I found him sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.  “Daddy,” he said, “I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“No?”

“No. And I haven’t had a chance to practice.”

I talked him off the table and into the car. The races went well. My youngest ran first (with the six-and-under crowd), and then my oldest did his mile, which was two times around the track.

After all the congratulating was over, I asked him if it was hard.

“Nah,” he said.

“What about at the start of the second lap?” I asked. “I thought coming around and seeing you had a whole nother lap to do would be tough.”

“Nah,” he said.

“You know,” his little brother said, “I think I did two laps too.”

We looked at him.

“I mean, by mistake. I think I ran two laps instead of one.”

“Hmm,” I said. “You think someone watching might have noticed you running an extra lap after everyone else had stopped?”

“Well…”