(Editor’s Note: Chris A. decided he wanted his last name shown after all!)

I was pretty competitive as a kid (no one could smoke more of his father’s cigarettes before throwing up, or run faster from his angry father), but I eventually learned my limitations and felt I no longer needed to test myself (basically, I discovered girls).

I saw that change as a sign of maturity, but my P.E. teacher saw it as the sign of my becoming a loser. At that time, his opinion mattered to me and I felt a little guilty. I then reminded myself that this was a man who had the body odor of a long-dead gorilla and whose breath smelled like a well-used whistle. If being a “winner” like him meant surrounding myself with an impenetrable zone of stink I was okay with coming in second, or just not playing the game at all.

That attitude has gotten me through life pretty comfortably so far (remember, “second place” is actually “first loser!”) My wife Lily informed me, however, that we owe it to our daughter Rachel to instill in her a healthy competitive spirit. Sweet little Rachel? Competitive? A five year old whose favorite pastimes are petting our cat Nigel until he’s almost furless, or spinning in circles until she collapses into the flower bed? Competitive?? I had images of Rachel bulked up on steroids, grunting with pride as she set Nigel on fire with the friction of one firm rub.

I found that image terribly disturbing and voiced these concerns to Lily. She calmed me down and agreed that we should be aiming toward the philosophies of good sportsmanship and that having fun is more important than winning (basically, the excuses commonly used by losers). She then added, “But we still want her to kick butt now and then.” And so began our efforts to raise a butt-kicking Gandhi.

This brings me to the subject of competitive parents, which Lily and I promised each other that we definitely would not become. You know the type: parents who shriek obscenities at their kids during the soccer game or spelling bee. They moan and bellow, grimacing as though they’re passing a stone and it’s somehow the fault of the referee, coach, or judge at the third grade science fair. For Lily and me, this obsessive and domineering parent was epitomized by the mother of one of Rachel’s playmates, a mother named Judith Valhalla.

Judith Valhalla once broke the nose of a man who accidentally put one fewer piece of Halloween candy into her daughter’s bag than he did into the other kids’. Judith sued a four-year old who grew more over the summer than her daughter did. The coaches in our Tiny Tot T-ball league wear a cup to every game solely because of Judith’s size-eight foot. I’ve never seen Judith’s husband and my theory is that he’s either been cowering behind the couch since their wedding day, or she ate him.

My wife and I had enrolled Rachel in an art class for the summer and decided this might be an opportunity to start gently encouraging her competitive side. I prepared myself to make comments like, “Good job honey! You ate more paste than any of the other kids!” or “It’s not important that Billy’s picture is prettier than yours, as long as you had fun putting crayons up your nose.”

Lily and I were thrown a bit though when, on the first day of class, Judith Valhalla showed up to drop off her daughter. This pleased Rachel who now had a friend to paint on, but Lily whispered to me through a forced smile, “Now the kids can hear, so be nice. Just watch her feet.”

We made pleasant small talk until Judith switched from bragging about her own daughter to belittling ours. “Do you really think Rachel could be an artist? She doesn’t seem terribly bright to me.”

At this point I realized I alone would be responsible for raising Rachel because my wife’s true competitive side suddenly showed itself. I intercepted Lily’s fist on its way to punching a hole through Judith’s brain, and then wrestled her to the ground clawing and snarling. As I pinned Lily down (a feat comparable to giving the Incredible Hulk a nurple) all the children from the class crowded around to see the spectacle. I knew everything would be okay, though, when over my shoulder I heard Judith’s daughter say to Rachel, “Your parents need to chill out.”