Tuesday, March 28, 2006

My daughter, my advocate.

We went to The Cheesecake Factory for lunch the other day, and while we were inside, the valets who took our car changed shifts. The guy who was there when we got outside looked for someone else's car while carrying our keys, and then he looked for our car but couldn't find it. As we stood and waited, another family, tired of waiting, spotted their own car, took their own keys, left the payment at the stand, and left.

Still we waited. Another valet drove up. He was there to run an errand, not to work, but he saw what was going on and stopped to help. The guy who parked our car, he explained, had marked the ticket "row C", which is not normally how they mark tickets. They didn't know which row was supposed to be "C" any more than we did.

As he's talking to us, my daughter interrupts. "That's my dad's car," she says. "He needs it to go to work."

Not long after, they found the car, and we were off. I'm sure I wouldn't be telling this story if my five-year-old daughter hadn't made perfectly clear how important it was.

(P. S. We tried to tip—heavily—the errand-running valet, but he wouldn't have it. He wouldn't even let us pay for the valet service. I bet my daughter could have made him, but we wouldn't want to get all heavy handed.)
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