I am very busy.

Like, important‑meeting‑with‑the‑CEO busy.

My trucks — all of them, every vehicle I own, from the loud ones to the fast ones to the ones that just look cool when you squint — are being lined up across the kitchen floor and into the playroom. This is not chaos. This is strategy. This is engineering. This is art.

I line them up by energy.

Not speed. Not color. Not size.

Energy.

Is this one the fastest?

Is that one the loudest?

Does this one have secret force fields that only I, James, Master of All Things That Go Vroom, can detect?

My hands wrap around each truck like I’m holding a tiny piece of my heart. I roll them across the floor with the precision of a NASA engineer and the passion of a man who has eaten exactly one too many fruit snacks.

Meanwhile, Nana is in the kitchen making spaghetti — the real kind. The kind with homemade meatballs and the kind of confidence only a woman who fed a house full of men for decades can possess. Pots clanging. Sauce bubbling. Meatballs sizzling. She’s in her own universe.

But suddenly…

I need her.

Urgently.

Critically.

Existentially.

“NANA!” I shout with the authority of someone who still needs their butt wiped but also runs this household emotionally.

She yells back over the pots and pans, “James, what do you need?”

I respond with the only word that matters.

“HELP!”

I motion dramatically toward the playroom, where I climb into my little chair like a king ascending his throne. Nana calls, “Dan!” into the living room, and suddenly Mom and Dad appear like confused interns summoned to a board meeting they didn’t prepare for.

“Help?” I repeat, staring at all these adults who have gathered in my sacred automotive arena. Why were they here? Who invited them? I didn’t need the extras. This wasn’t a group project.

Mom kneels down. “You need help, bud? With what?”

I look at Nana.

I point at the brown couch.

I deliver my decree.

“NANA. You sit on brown couch and watch me play.”

She blinks. “Oh, of course, I’m just cooking—”

“No.”

I say it with the calm firmness of a man who knows his worth.

“Nana. Now.”

She tries again. “Let me just stir the pasta—”

“No.”

The trucks need her.

The trucks demand her.

The trucks will not fly through the air or spin their wheels properly unless Nana is present as witness, audience, and hype squad.

Mom and Dad retreat to the boring, quiet living room — a place with no action, no drama, no vroom‑vroom energy. They don’t get it. They never get it.

But Nana?

Nana is my cheerleader.

My pit crew.

My emotional support human.

I will teach her everything:

How the wheels spin.

How sometimes only one wheel spins and that’s actually the coolest thing ever.

How trucks fly, flip, crash, and survive dramatic rescues.

This is not playtime.

This is legacy.

This is automotive excellence.

And Nana must bear witness.