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One evening a few weeks back, Daniel and I and our two children were reading in the living room. It was a lovely moment, now that I look back. We were all reading our own separate books, and it was very quiet and calm. But at the time I felt discontented. We weren't interacting. I guess I felt a little guilty, as if I were getting off too easy. I know being in the same room with my kids doesn't necessarily mean I'm paying any attention to them, and I began to worry that perhaps I don't really spend as much time with them as I give myself credit for. So, I thought, what we really ought to do was play a game. So I brought out this game called Urban Myth that I'd bought because it sounded fun and vaguely educational, in which players take turns reading out statements and the other players have to guess whether they're true or false. We played for a while, and we learned that "swimming after a meal leads to cramps and drowning" is false; "honeybees kill more people annually than poisonous snakes" is true; and "an elderly Arkansas woman cooked her poodle in the microwave in a misguided attempt to dry him after his bath" is false. Then, Meredith, age seven, read out: "Reading in dim light will ruin your eyes." Now, this is something I tell my children all the time while I'm swooping down on them to turn on the nearest light. My own mother used to do this to me when I was little, and I remember being annoyed by it, but that's because she would fuss with the light--she'd move it around and tilt the lampshade--and I don't do that. Anyway, the point is, this is wisdom that is deeply carved into my family's consciousness. So my nine-year-old, Jonathan, promptly guessed "true." But for some reason--something about the way the statement was worded or something about the way this wretched game worked--I was suddenly quite sure that the right answer was "false," so I guessed "false." And indeed "false" was the right answer. I moved my piece forward. ""What?" said Jonathan, his voice breaking with outrage. "But you always tell me that! And all along you knew it wasn't true?" "No," I said. "I always thought it was true." "Then why did you just say it was false?" he demanded. "I don't know," I said. "It just--" "I can't believe you told me a lie!" "Look," I said. "Maybe the card is wrong. I actually do think it's true. And I still don't want you to read in dim light." "Then why did you say it was false?" he yelled. "Because that's what happens in these kinds of games!" I yelled back. Then I realized that yelling at him maybe wasn't the way to go. "Come on, honey," I said. "Are you mad at me because I'm winning, or are you mad at me because you think I told you something that wasn't true?" "BOTH!" he yelled. "I would never lie to you," I said. "Maybe the statement is false because reading in dim light doesn't actually ruin your eyes. Maybe it just . . . strains them or something. Anyway, it's just a game." "Rrrr," he growled." We shelved Urban Myth. But I didn't give up on my game-playing campaign. I thought the problem was simply that I'd picked a lousy game and I should steer clear of games that deal with sticky issues like truth. So the next night I brought out Scrabble. I should explain that I have a strict policy against purposely allowing my children to win games. I think it would be bad for them. I know some people whose father always used to let them win at games, and it seems to me that they grew up to have an inflated sense of entitlement vis-‡-vis the world generally and a certain lack of respect for their father specifically. I mean, as I told Jonathan when I thrashed him at checkers--when he was four--"I've been playing this game thirty-one years longer than you have. Surely you didn't think you could beat me?" I figure that if I make him earn his victories, then when he actually does win he'll know he really accomplished something, and that will boost his self-esteem. The first time we played Scrabble, it was just Jonathan and me. Daniel claimed to have work to do, and Meredith wisely said she'd rather play on the computer. By herself. I told Jonathan he could start. (Occasional leniency is not contrary to policy.) I told him he could start, but then he didn't have any words. None. Daniel came, looked over his shoulder, and confirmed that the kid had gotten a very bad break. We told Jonathan he could use the turn to trade in as many tiles as he wanted, and I went ahead and put down BOTHER for 11 points, which I got to double because I started: 22 points. Then Jonathan, after thinking a while, carefully put down M-A-O above the R in Bother, and then added an I. "Maori!" said Daniel. "Jonathan! That's a great word!" "Oop, nope, sorry, sweetie," I said. "Proper noun." "What?" said Jonathan. "You can't use proper nouns," I said. "Didn't I mention that? But I tell you what. Since this is your first time playing, you can do it." Daniel, meanwhile, had snatched up Volume 1 of the New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary and flipped through it in a rush. "Anyway, there's a lower-case version of ‘Maori'," he said. "Definition 3: ‘each of a brightly coloured wrasse'." "Hey!" I said. "Are you playing?" "No," he said. "If you're playing, get your own tiles!" "I'm not playing," he said. "I've got work to do." "Okay," I said. A little later, Jonathan was in trouble again. Daniel hurried back over, leaned down, and whispered. Next thing I knew, Jonathan placed H-E-X alongside BOTHER to make not only HEX but also BE and OX, with the X on a Double Letter Score square. Forty-two points. I felt a familiar hotness, a hotness that recalled being the third and youngest child in my family, and, consequently, a childhood full of losing. I started breathing faster. "Yes!" said Daniel. I should mention that I am the kind of Scrabble player who likes to make long and lovely words that invariably score low. The quest for elegance often causes me to lose sight of the goal, which is to earn points. There is that other kind of Scrabble player, of course, the kind that cares not for elegance but just takes a high-scoring letter and finds some way to place it on a Double Letter Score square. That kind of player makes words like ZIT and QAT and I just hate that kind of player, not least because that kind of player usually wins. A few turns later, Jonathan was disappointed because he couldn't find a way to reach the Triple Word Score square in the corner. "Okay," said Daniel, who seemed miraculously to have finished all his work. "If you can't find a way to use it yourself, see if you can find a way to block Mommy from using it." "Hey!" I said. "Don't help me anymore!" yelled Jonathan. The next time we played, Daniel joined Jonathan and me, while Meredith prudently continued to opt out. Every time it was Daniel's turn, he'd look at the board, look at his tiles, and then say, "This might take a while." Eventually, I started getting up to take care of other things during his turns, like putting in the laundry or putting the laundry in the dryer or folding the laundry. Jonathan started to whine. "I'm no good at this game!" Jonathan said. "Yes, you are," I said. "No, I'm not," he said. "Don't be so hard on yourself," I said. "Every move doesn't have to be perfect. Just put down what you've got." "No!" said Jonathan, the tears starting to spill out of his eyes. "I have nothing good! I don't want to play anymore." And he left the room, weeping. I started to put the tiles into their bag. "What are you doing?" said Daniel. "I'm putting the game away," I said. "I was just about to make my move," he said. "Are you kidding?" I asked. "Fine," he said. "Fine. Go ahead. Put it away." "No--fine, take your turn," I said. He put down his move, using up his last tiles. "Looks like you won," I said. "Well, you have to subtract the tiles you have left over from your score," he said. "I get to add your tiles, and Jonathan's tiles, too." He bent over the scorecard, adding. "Looks like you won by a lot," I said. I put the tiles away. So a few nights ago Jonathan asked to play again. We set up the board in a gentle, cautious kind of way, and we all decided that we would keep in mind that it was just a game, we would relax, we would have a little emotional distance, and we'd take as many breaks as necessary. Jonathan went first and placed TEA on the board (double word score, 8 points). I put down FEED (two double letter scores, 13 points) and Meredith, who had decided to play, added DRINK (12 points). Daniel settled down before the board, and when it started getting late, I tucked the children in bed. I was talking with Jonathan in his bunk when Daniel called out from the other room. "I have it!" he called. "I have my move!" "Great!" I yelled back. "I have a very elegant move!" "Great!" I yelled back. "I want you all to come see it!" Jonathan and I climbed down out of the top bunk and went to the living room, where Daniel sat holding tiles across his palm. "Okay," said Daniel. "You know, there is another move I could make for more points, but I like this one better." He placed an L at the end of TEA, and spelled LOIN vertically, using the I in DRINK. "This one's 14 points. I could have gotten 16 points, but I thought this was more elegant." "That's great," I said. "TEAL and LOIN!" said Jonathan. "That's great, Daddy. Good night!" He ran off to bed. Daniel and I left the Scrabble board just as it was, so we could continue the next day, and went to the kitchen to clean up. "I could have gotten 16 points," Daniel said. "But I took this other move instead." "That was highly principled of you," I said. After a while Daniel and I started getting ready to go to sleep. "That was a really elegant move," he mused. "I really liked that move. You know, I could have gotten more points, but I liked this move." "It was a great move," I said. "Thank you," he said. The next night, Jonathan, Meredith, and I took our turns. It was Daniel's turn again, but he had not yet come home from work. "When's Daddy getting home?" Jonathan asked, doing a weird little anticipatory dance. "Oh, he has to come soon. I have a great move. He'll be so proud of me. He'll be so mad!" Daniel didn't get home until after Jonathan was asleep, so the next morning Jonathan scrambled out of his bunk bed and raced to the Scrabble board. Slowly, deliberately, he put down R-E-V-E-N-U-E. Then he held his tile-holder upside down to emphasize its emptiness. "Re-ven-ue!" he crowed. "I used all my letters!" "Fifty-point bonus!" said Daniel, eyes wide. "Wow, Jonathan! But wait: he mispronounced it. Maybe it shouldn't count." "Jonathan, that's amazing," I said. He had made a seven-letter word, on a Double Word Score square, and also, by fitting the final E in under the word WINO (Daniel's word) he had made WE for a total of 77 points. The beauty of the move was beyond dispute. He kicked our asses and redeemed us all. I was so proud of him, but suddenly his triumph, even more than his earlier tears, made me realize what we'd done to him. He shouldn't have had to get a fifty-point bonus and a Double Word Score in order to feel good about himself. We should have protected him. We try so hard to shield him from so many things, but every day we expose him to the most pernicious danger of all. Us. I put my arms around him, caught him, and held him still for a moment in the middle of his rejoicing. "God damn it!" said Daniel. "I should have done the 16-point move!" "Ha ha!" said Jonathan. "Ha ha ha, ha ha!"
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