A story about the child who is currently making monster noises in her room instead of doing her homework.

When my friend Jamie and I were in junior high we were famous for doing anything we could to avoid actually *doing* anything in P.E. class. I recall one famous hour spent screaming the song "Three Chartreuse Buzzards" across the Hendrix Junior High tennis courts, much to the obvious auditory pain of our instructor. The day's lesson plan included actually *playing* tennis but we, of course, weren't following directions. (I think we swatted a few balls around but were we learning anything? Doubt it. I still know nothing about tennis.) There were multiple times that she and I were lucky to get our mile "run" (we actually ran as little of that as we could) done in under fifteen minutes. Of course, now Jamie is a marathon whiz and I am cursing my Power family cankles (although KUDOS TO ME I've lost ten pounds in the last month! Hooray deployment stress!), so it would appear that she and I took very different paths on this later in life. (Jamie, YOU ROCK.)

Given this history and my hatred of any kind of physical exertion that doesn't involve a donut on the end of a string, it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that the Spawn of My Loins, my mini-me, Corinne version 2.0, had this to say to my mom on the 1.5 mile Walk to Cure Diabetes this past weekend:

"I sure hope they come up with a cure for this disease in the next year. I do NOT want to walk this far again NEXT YEAR."

Again, a testament to my superior parenting skills. And the strength of Power family genes.