After I got the kids to bed tonight I went downstairs, got my bag of BBQ Doritoes, my can of Pepsi, and went and sat down to catch the end of the truck race.
In a ballet of movement only mastered by the best of sport fan couch-potatos I get comfortable, start chowing down, and turn my attention to the TV screen all at the same time. Just as I’m about half way through my second handful of chips I hear a little noise. I ignore it and finish off the handful of chips and reach for a gulp of Jeff Gordon endorsed beverage when I hear the noise again.
My keen sense of hearing is no longer impaired by the TV as I turn the volume down and listen more astutely. I quickly ascertain that the noise is from the top of stairs.
I get up from the couch and go to investigate.
It’s my daughter. “Daddy I saw a shadow in my room,” she says. Clearly kidspeak for, “I don’t want to go to bed yet and I’ll pull out the ‘I’m scared card’”. Classic, my daughter is a master in daddy-manipulation.
What to do? My options are quickly narrowed down to two; 1) be the hard ass that I’m not and send her to bed and fight with her about shadows in her room until one of eventually ends up in tears - usually me, I’m a softy - and miss the last 17 laps of the Truck race, or 2) pick her up, bring her downstairs, sit her on my lap with her ever-present blanket, and listen to her complain about how she hates NASCAR, but I at least still get to watch the end of the race.
Clearly there is only one choice: 2. So I bring her with me to the couch with the comfort of knowing that I’ll at least get to watch the race while listening to her tell me why she does not like NASCAR.
But the oddest thing happens, she is quiet and she is watching the race. I think, “Does this kid feel well?” and “What have the aliens done with my child?”
I then hesitantly ask her, “Which truck do you think will win?” knowing all to well that this is going into a “I hate NASCAR” rant.
“The yellow one,” is her reply.
“Which yellow one?” I ask dumbfounded.
… a pause in the conversation while she watches the TV …
“That one!” she says pointing to the TV as Matt Crafton’s yellow #88 Menard’s machine rolls by on the screen.
“You think?” I ask, forgetting about the alien thing for a moment.
“Yep,” she retorts with a certainty that is only possessed by 3 year olds and stereotypical used car salesmen.
“Well, I don’t know Baby-Luv, I don’t think that guy has ever won a race and the two trucks in front of him look to be a little better,” I say to her to soften the blow for when the truck she picks doesn’t win the race.
… another pause while she watches the TV …
I then ask, “Why did you pick that one Princess?
“Because its yeeellooow,” she coos.
“Whoa!” I think. This is coming from a kid who only wears pink and who’s nickname at daycare is ‘Pinkerella’. If she had went for the red truck I’d at least understand, that is about as close to pink as you could get on the track, but yellow?
Then she unexpectedly asks, “Which truck are you going for?”
“Damn, I wasn’t expecting that,” I think, still caught up in the ‘yellowness’ of it all.
Clearly I’m caught off-guard here, but I am quick on my feet and reply, “The yellow one too honey.”
This way I can share the loss with her when either Darnell or Benson win the race. Crafton would be lucky if he held off McCumbee, Bodine, and Hornaday for crying out loud.
And then all hell breaks loose on the track. Darnell spins his tires and lost several positions on a restart. Benson gets black flagged, Bodine wrecks Hornaday and gets sent back to the longest line, and Crafton holds off McCumbee in the green, white, checkers finish.
“Hey we won,” I distantly hear myself say in amazement.
“Yep,” she quips with that 3 year old certainty again, “because it’s yeeelloow”.
You can’t argue with that, she picked the winner after all.
