“I was the first one dressed,” he said.

It’s not a race.

“I was the first one done with dinner,” said the other.

You shouldn’t eat so fast.

“I’m the winner,” they said in a rotating series of blurs and screams and clouds of dust.

We’re all winners here.

Everything is competition, from brushing their teeth to pulling on their socks.  It’s not a race against the clock nor is my schedule of any consequence.  It is the beating of the other that drives their actions and heralds the subsequent gloating, which in itself is a competition, pitted as it is against the wails of banshees and the agony of defeat.

We’re all losers here.