As parents, it is easy to identify childhood traits that continue into adulthood. My oldest still tests for when trying on dresses. My youngest is still more inclined to listen to a conversation rather than join in. When it comes to us, we sometimes forget these strings tethered to our youth until a mirror-like moment transports us.

P.D. Eastman’s was my absolute favorite childhood book. My mother reports that babysitters would hide the story because I would want it to be read cover-to-cover repeatedly. is a beginner reader full of colorful dogs driving cars and going about their daily activities. Possibly this is why to this day, books and dogs are my favorite things.

Last week, as I modeled a hat for my teenage daughter, I was suddenly transported into the subplot of this canine classic. There, every few pages, a poodle would ask another dog if he liked her hat. The reply for most of the book would be,

Joyfully, I posed for my daughter.

Instead of the benign, of the book, I was confronted with a bark of horror. She was a bit harsher than the pooch in the story.

To be fair to the accessory, it was a very nice summer straw hat. It wasn’t a head-turner. It wouldn’t have looked out of place at the track. Most of all, it was far less flashy than the feathered fascinators that are a popular choice.

While I think hats are fun, and used to wear them without being self-conscious, I knew she was right — my family would certainly mock me. But still, I considered it — what if wearing a hat was lucky? What if upping the caliber of my outfit would also improve the quality of my betting?

According to the society columns, there are acceptable non-hat options. For the track, social media fashionistas suggest linen pants, a flowy shirt, white sneakers or sandals and chunky gold earrings as an acceptable casual ensemble. With this guidance as my template, I ironed summer pants and a white shirt, and donned large earrings and Birkenstocks. While I may not have been runway-ready, I was a step up from my fellow people who spend most of the day at the picnic tables. In the pricier areas, dressy clothing is required, but in the picnic grounds, anything goes.

At home, I was sure my confidence would pay off, but by the time we parked, I was completely wrinkled. As we walked from the car, a few drops of rain smudged the newsprint from the Pink Sheet across my shirt. Stepping in a muddle puddle, then the dirt, did nothing to improve the attractiveness of my feet. I was a hot mess upon arrival.

My luck followed suit. My family engages in where the ultimate result is to lose money slowly rather than win big. We place small, cautious bets and when we do win, this parsimony shows. Oh, we have impressive strategies: Betting the winningest jockeys, looking for hidden meanings in names and using different betting windows. None of these have ever proved reliable, so the is usually the one who has lost the least amount of money. Very rarely does someone end up in the black.

This year’s results were the same. The problem, my sister and I decided this time, was that NYRA didn’t offer the betting options we needed. Every race she managed to pick the horse who placed fourth, she simply needed the opportunity to bet on the line. And because my trifecta picks invariably turned out to be the last three horses to cross the finish line, I would love a option.

Maybe if these betting options existed, our luck would change.

Or maybe we should follow our son’s childhood example. When handed $10 to wager, he asked,

we answered.

So, he pocketed the money, climbed on the picnic table to better observe the races and yelled his little heart out. In more ways than one, he was the big winner that day.

Maybe next year I’ll try his strategy, or maybe I’ll try wearing a hat.