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Zeke is a child who believes every thing should be a competition. He will turn all manner of activities into a race, a level, a versus event. I suspect he comes by this trait genetically. When it comes to competing, he may be his Papaw reborn. Dale’s Daddy, Tom, is very competitive in racing and sports. Most people drive their cars to travel from one place to another. Tom figures, if you have to be driving, you might as well be racing. He has raced his cars, trucks, and motorcycles against many an unsuspecting motorist. Rumor has it, he occasionally raced his vehicle to outrun a ticket. This is only a rumor, of course, and cannot be verified.

It is bowling, however, which brings his fiercely competitive nature to the fore. Tom loves to bowl and has been in leagues for years. When Dale calls home, Tom gives him the rundown on who is in what place individually and by team. So, when Zeke begins to inform each member of our family in which order they have placed for his current competition, I tell myself “it is genetic and he cannot help it.” I also tell myself, “this kid is driving me nuts.” A few nights ago when Josiah walked into Zeke’s room for bedtime prayers, Zeke said, “You’re last.” Then, Josiah threw something at him.

Before the end of dinner each night, he lines himself up in the doorway of the sun room for a race around the house. The race route is past the table, down the hall, around the corner, through the office, along the kitchen island, and back through the door of the sun room. He taunts fellow family members until someone agrees to race him. If we all refuse to race, then he demands we time him so he can race the clock.

This race course is often altered by backpacks and books strewn in the hallway, a cat underfoot, forgotten shoes, aggressive elbowing, and starting before “GO” is yelled. The race ends with one of the following statements: “I win! You lose!” or “You’re a big cheater!” No matter how it ends, Zeke’s next statement is always “Let’s go again.”

A month ago, at dinner with a family from church, Zeke was fooling around and not eating. The Dad remarked, “I bet I’ll finish my dinner before you.” The “GAME ON” sign lit up over Zeke’s head and he began to shovel in the food.

The most aggravating competition happens repeatedly throughout the day. It is called “The race to the door.” Whenever we pull into the garage, there is a race to see who can get to the house door first. Initially this competition was much more violent, because the door was locked and stepping across the threshold declared you the winner. In the time it took me to gather my purse and close the van doors, there would be a scrum on the small top step as everyone jockeyed for the best position. After numerous bruises, bumps, and tears, Dale changed the finish line. Now, whoever touches the door first is the winner.

The competitions come so often and in such varied forms, I often lose track of them. On the way to pick up Gabe and Abby from school, Zeke asked me when I thought we would get back home. I said, “3:21.” Zeke replied, “I say 3:33.” I immediately forgot this conversation, because his talking and questioning can be relentless. However, as we were 4 blocks from our house and the clock clicked to 3:22, I heard from the back, “You lose, Mommy!”