The Back Seat Winner

The Hubs and I  have won at many things. We are winners.

But there was a chance our son might lose, that he might not be a winner this year. He has won twice in two prior states in the Awana Grand Prix. We prepped him the whole way to the race, just in case. We made our claims of love for him, of our joy that he is our son. He was so quiet, his six year old head pressed into the gray leather headrest. We repeated ourselves a few times. Still just a quiet "uh-huh" from the rear of the minivan, barely heard over his two younger brothers between us.

We arrived at the competition and trailed the family to the basement. Dr. Romance was armed with his paparazzi camera. (I will have to take a picture of his telephoto monstrosity for you.) Definitely we arrived in a basement of winners. We packed in with 100 other tense folks. Some stood poised with axle lube and babied their cars. Others buzzed around adding weights. Dr. Romance and I gave each other a glance with raised eyebrows. These folks were intense for sure. I looked away quickly, too nervous to read his eyes.

But our sweet son, our first born, our first born just as I am first born, just as Dr. Romance is first born,  

yet so unlike us in so many ways, 

had no pit in his stomach. We are strong waves. He is a calm ocean. He unpacked his car quietly, unshaken by the table judges, and the hovering helicopter adults in the room. He is so unassuming, so compliant. He yielded his car to be judged for design. He knew that his design was simple. He did not expect that trophy, amongst the princess slipper, iPod, or Wii remote .

He was battling for speed, battling in the most demure and reserved way. 

He lined up his car on the track. He was chosen for the first heat, where he would race four times, once in each lane.

He lined up his car 41 inches in the air, somewhere around his first grade chin.

Thirty feet straight down the race track, his yellow bullet clearly smoked the pack. But just two inches shy of the finish line, his car toppled to the side. It did not cross the finish line. It did not count. He received no score. A piece of tape that cradled a shiny quarter to the underbelly of his car started to drag, started to uncurl, and toppled the car. Though Son1 attempted to blow dry the glued quarter that would exactly weight his car to the five ounce limit, it did not dry. Thus the tape.

The entire crowd AHHHHHED when his car shot out from the pack.There was no competition. A horrified 100 voices ohhhhhed when the yellow cannonball of a car fell off the red track.

And our first grader retrieved his car with no reaction, no readable emotion, and ambled thirty feet back to the ramp that measured just to his chin. Dr. Romance checked the car once over, and handed it back to Son1.

He continued his task, not phased by the hundred onlookers. That is him, every single day.

(Those hairy arms belong to a supervising adult, not to our family.)

And he watched only his car. He watched it complete three more lanes of competition. And he was done. We now waited for all of the other heats of cars in his division to finish their races. We were unsure he would advance to the semi-finals.

Dr. Romance and I sat back. We watched the over-lubrication of cars, the legal tinkering of weight, the balancing of wheels. We analyzed the competition. We repeated to one another that we were proud of him, that he is a winner. And yes, we ran the numbers and the averages on his competition, trying to predict his fate. We are math people.

The semi-finals were announced. He made it! I was squealing a high school squeal as silently as I could. I jumped up and down with my feet firmly planted on the ground, eyeing my oblivious 17 month old. I faked my disinterest to those hundred voices. But there is a proud 3 year old sports caster that let all onlookers know his brother advanced to the semi-finals, and finally to the Final Four.

And though his yellow car blew past all cars in every heat, he offered humility. Before the awards ceremony we knew he was a winner, but we had known that before we left the house.

And when his name was called, and when he collected his trophy, he made no noise.