The Missing Color

I’m driving home after picking up my five-year-old daughter Patch from daycare.  Somehow or other, the subject turns to colors.  She tells me she can say most of the major colors in Spanish, and she does.  Then I ask her if she knows all the colors of the rainbow.

She names red, orange, yellow, and then gets stuck.  I ask her if she’s ever heard of Roy G. Biv.

Her nose scrunches as she considers this.  In fact, the expression on her face is one of bizarre incredulity as she says “Roy G. Biv” to herself.  Almost as bizarre as when I tried to convince her that we humans, too, are “mammals.” 

I explain that each letter of Roy G. Biv’s name stands for a color.  “Oh, I heard this!” she interjects.  To drive the point home, I recite the colors for her: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.  I start to go through the list again when –

BLAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGNHHHHH!

The most angry sound I’ve ever heard from her in those five, almost six, years reverberates about the car. 

“Daddy!!!”

“What?!” I exclaim, frantically reciting in my head what I’ve been reciting aloud.  Where did I go wrong?  What boundary did I cross??  What kindergarten faux pas am I guilty of???

“Daddy!”

“What?”

“You forgot . . . hot pink!”