Thursday, May 30, 2013
If you ever wondered what two year-olds dream of, it is one thing, plain and simple: revenge. Mommy was the first to posit the theory. I didn’t want to believe it, but then I heard it with my own ears. Let me explain.
Like so many revenge tales, it all started with a harmless game. As most games, Bub and I invented this particular game out of pure boredom. We were on a walk one day, and I began pointing out yellow cars. And…that’s the game. Find yellow cars. They don’t even have to be driving. You should probably get a bonus for that, but I can’t go changing the rules now, can I?
Yes, this is what passes for entertainment in this household. Don’t judge me, judger.
There was some logic involved here: Bub was learning his colors, and I was tired of trying to describe colors like cosmic gray mica and champagne metallic. So I started drawing his attention to the primary colors, and yellow was the rarest. Look for the bright and bold; it’s not only okay to be different, it’s something to celebrate. This is called “teaching life lessons,” I think. Plus beige cars just piss me off.
Yes, my car is beige. What did I say above, judgers?
Anyway, I guess my competitive streak caused this father-son bonding to morph from spotting the cars to getting a point for them to the hard knocks lessons of efficient shit-talking and rubbing it in your opponent’s face at every opportunity.
“Hey, Bub, what’s that behind you? Oh, can’t see around your car seat? Oh, that’s too bad, because it looks like…yes, it is in fact…a BIG FAT YELLOW POINT FOR DADDY. INYA FACE!!!!”
And so on. Did I mention it was a six hour drive to Nana and Boompa’s?
So once we arrived and got settled, we shared a room with the kids. Too big for a Pack n Play, Bub slept in the Totally Awesome Big Boy Sleeping Bag beside the bed. The first night, my allergies were killing, so I went into the living room and slept on the couch. In the morning, Mommy regaled me with tales of being woken up in the middle of the night by an eerie, yet tiny, voice, emanating from the floor beside her.
“Yellow car, yeloooooooowww car. One point, shapowwww.”
Maybe that’s not verbatim, I wasn’t there. It’s a pretty reasonable interpretation, though. Then later that same night, he spoke again, saying only this:
“Dirty hands.” He could only be referring to his tiny digits soiled with cold-blooded vengeance. Chilling.
Well, yesterday we packed up and headed back. Six more yellow-car hours. Round 1 was spirited and intense; I destroyed him. After lunch, he conked out for a good hour or so. But he didn’t call “Time,” so I cherry-picked a few points whilst he slumbered. Pad the stats a little.
Forty-five minutes into his nap, he didn’t even really stir, he just kind of moved his head from one side of the car seat to the other, fixing his closed eyes on me, and said:
Man, this kid was serious. Even though I saw no such thing, I decided to give him the point. Call it respect, call it pity; it cut the overall lead to 156 – 8. And who says sportsmanship is dead?