I always thought racing was exhausting—mentally, physically, emotionally. But no one prepared me for the battlefield that is life with a two-year-old. And the battlefield, in this case, was our living room.

The room itself looked like it had survived a small hurricane. Toys scattered everywhere—stuffed animals, building blocks, a half-dressed doll that was missing one shoe. A tiny plastic tea set was lined up on the coffee table like our daughter had hosted a royal banquet. And right in the middle of this chaos stood the queen herself: our little girl, wearing a pink tutu over her pajamas and a glittery tiara slightly too big for her head.

“Daddy!” she shrieked, her voice high and commanding. “You guard me!”

I was already on my knees, crawling across the rug that had seen better days, pretending to be her royal knight. My shirt kept riding up, my hair was a mess, and I had a suspicious sticker stuck to my elbow. Still, she didn’t look impressed.

“You’re too slow!” she declared, pointing her tiny finger at me.

From the corner of my eye, I caught my wife sitting cross-legged on the rug, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she watched us, her messy bun falling apart, strands of hair framing her face in a way that still made my heart flip. She looked like she was enjoying every second of my downfall.

“You could help, you know,” I groaned, flopping onto the floor dramatically.

She smirked over her cup. “I’m enjoying the show. It’s not every day I see a Formula 1 driver defeated by a toddler.”

Our daughter let out a squeal of pure joy and darted behind the sofa. I scrambled after her, knees scraping against the carpet, trying to keep up with her endless energy. Her tiny giggles bounced off the walls, filling the whole house with the kind of happiness I never knew I needed.

Suddenly, she popped up from behind the sofa holding her stuffed bunny. “This is my crown!” she announced proudly. She plopped it onto her head, and of course, it tumbled right off. Her bottom lip trembled, her little eyebrows knitting together.

Panic shot through me. I froze, already imagining the tears about to fall. But before I could rush in, my wife leaned over, picked up the bunny, and gently set it back on our daughter’s curls. “There you go, princess,” she said, her voice warm and soft.

Just like that, the storm was gone. Our daughter beamed, her eyes sparkling as she marched straight toward me, bunny still perched precariously on her head. Before I had time to brace myself, she launched into my chest with a force that knocked the wind out of me.

I fell backward with an exaggerated groan. “Oh no! The princess has defeated her guard!”

She collapsed into giggles, climbing on top of me like I was her personal playground. Her tiny hands grabbed fistfuls of my hair, tugging without mercy. My wife nearly choked on her tea from laughing so hard.

“Do you see this?” I asked, still pinned to the floor, looking up at my wife. My voice was half serious, half joking, but my chest was full—so full of love for both of them that it almost hurt.

She tilted her head, her smile softening. “I see it. And I’m not helping you.”

I brushed a strand of hair from my face and gave her a look of mock betrayal. “You do realize,” I said, gasping dramatically under the weight of our very powerful two-year-old, “that I married you for support, not for front-row tickets to my humiliation.”