When my eldest son was 4, I began to take him to the demolition derby at our local county fair.  What little boy wouldn’t love cars smashing into each other, spinning dirt from blown out tires, water rising as a fountain from ruptured radiators?  It was an annual ritual for us – mother and son.  When he was 13, we added 4 year old son number two to the mix.  That was the last year for my eldest.  High school football has taken priority.  Sigh.

So this year, it was my six year old and I who made the trek.  Strolling down the midway, we picked up an enormous bag of kettle corn and a bottle of water to fuel us for the evening.  The grandstands were nearly full, when the first cars took the field.  I like to introduce my children to sin at an early age, so I immediately proposed the rules around our other tradition:  demolition derby betting.  Each of us picked two cars.  We got a quarter for each of our cars that made it to the top three in each heat, balancing out the winnings and losses at the end.  Son number two’s sole income at this point in his life is from the tooth fairy, so we agreed on a paltry quarter per car bet.  There’s plenty of time to get into the big money as he gets older.

The first heat took off with a roar, and inside of two minutes, the air around us was thick with exhaust fumes, burning oil, and dust thrown up from the arena.  I looked over at son number two, enthusiastically cheering for his cars, and wondered how badly his lungs were being damaged.  Maybe the same as him smoking a pack of camels a day for the entirety of first grade?  I follow the survival of the fittest parenting model.  Expose the children to every hazard you can, and the ones that live through it will be invulnerable, virtual Superheroes.  Yep, I had clearly reached a new redneck mother low.  After this, I’d give him warm Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can, and put him to bed without a bath, still wearing his dirty clothing from the day.  Just kidding.  Well about the PBR anyway.

“Fire!  Fire!