My mom hasn’t always been a marathon runner. It’s fairly new. I should have seen it coming. When we were kids she would give Sarah and I pillowcases and we would not return home until they were full. Not just almost full, or close to the top. I mean pull-on-your-shoulder heavy, 2-week sugar high stash, lose a glass slipper late at night. She was a trooper. A marathoner. Sarah and I would go home and lay out all of our loot. We’d trade peanut butter cups for lollipops (1:3) and nerds for hershey’s bars (even then I liked dark chocolate). So, it is this that I attribute my manical trick-or-treating skills. Thanks for the marathon genes mom, I love you. BOO!