“You were more fun to play with when you were into Barbie dolls,” I tell my daughter as we sit at our kitchen table, reading the directions to a board game that perplexes the heck out of me. “This game makes no sense – place the card on a square, tap it, then turn it, then roll the dice, and whoever rolls the highest number wins. What kind of game is that?”
“It’s a fun game,” my daughter says, setting up the board.
“When I was a kid, we played checkers – that’s a game that makes sense – and the smart kids played backgammon,” I say, pretending to continue reading the directions, but more tuned toward making up rules as we go along.
“Did you play backgammon?” she asks.
“Sort of,” I say.
“So you were just a little smart,” she says, smiling.
“Oh yeah, let’s see how smart you are – show me how to play this crazy game,” I reply, giving up on the directions.
She places a card on a square, taps it, turns it, then rolls her dice, raking a 9. She then rolls the dice for me, ending up with a 6. “I win!” she says, adding a card to her winner’s square.
We move through another round of tapping, turning, and rolling – and she wins again. “This is rigged,” I say. “Because you’re rolling the dice for both of us, you’re somehow cheating.”
“Actually, because you can’t roll dice real good, and I have to do it for you, it’s not cheating,” she says, defeating my claim with a technicality.
“Because I need you to pour me orange juice, does that mean you can poison it?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says tapping, turning, and rolling, defeating me further.
“Can’t we play checkers?” I ask.
“Sure, I love checkers,” she says.
“Wait – you always beat me at checkers, too, right?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says.
“Forget checkers, then,” I say. “Can’t we play some sort of wheelchair game – I’d be great at that.”
“OK,” she says. “What are manual wheelchairs made from?”
“Aluminum,” I say.
“You win,” she says. “Now back to my game.”
“Alright, let’s finish your game,” I say. “And, by the way, you’re not allowed near my orange juice anymore.”