Last week, my best friend, who is also the baby’s godfather (not to be confused with the baby’s father) came to stay.
He arrived the day after Storm Éowyn, and the kids were thrilled to see him and his Mary Poppins bag stuffed full of plush teddies and whoopee cushions for the boys.
Finally, with all the optimism of a man who has never been on the receiving end of a four-year-old’s verbal lambasting, he produced an impressively timeless wooden board of Snakes and Ladders.
My heart sank because when it comes to organised fun of any kind, have no doubt about it — my eldest plays by his own rules.
It’s not that we haven’t tried organised fun before but it always seems to end in tears.
We have had to abort Connect 4 countless times —tears are guaranteed if the words ‘four in a row’ and ‘same colour’ are mentioned. Number One will only play if ‘playing’ involves family members watching as he drops plastic coins repeatedly until he reaches the grid’s top. I once attempted to drop a disc of an opposite colour beside his own, and he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon. After a couple of hours of sulking, I apologised profusely, hugged him, and promised never to interfere with his game plan again. He chose to be the bigger person and move on. At four-and-a-half, he is still a bit small to grasp the concept of rules and, as such, I’d like to think that his inability to enjoy a casual game of Connect 4 is less down to his personality and more down to the fact we still have to tie his shoes.
Hide and Seek is another example of how he rules the roost. The actual rules of engagement — hiding and seeking — go out the window when I am pitted against my eldest, who is quick to lay down the law and make sure everyone knows how the game will go. Firstly, he will tell me where to specifically hide, and any deviation from the precise location will be met with flaring nostrils and a stomping of feet. If he is hiding, I am under no circumstances to have the audacity to find him. Instead, I must locate him if and when he shouts that I may do so.
We have had to abort Connect 4 countless times
Finding him is always easy because not only does he choose the same spot but he also, quite helpfully, reminds me of the precise GPS coordinates beforehand. Once, he tried to mix things up by hiding under a coffee table but, given this coffee table was made of glass, my hunt was very much performative.
A few months ago, we were gifted a game which involved sand and small plastic rubies, which immediately became the bane of my existence due to their tiny choke size and the frequency with which Number One was losing track of them. Messy substance? Tick. Choking hazard? Tick. Deceptively complicated rules which make no sense to an adult who supposedly has a third-level degree in English? Treble tick. So much of a head melt is the game that I have been questioning whether the gifter secretly hates me but, that said, bouts of lingering paranoia can always be remedied by our old friend Mr Jenga. If you’re not familiar with Mr Jenga, it’s basically Irish property development but with less asbestos.
My four-year-old builds a tower which, to the naked eye, looks fairly sturdy but, quicker than an auctioneer can say ‘panoramic views’, one block has been removed, and now the tower, like my social life, is in smithereens.
Arriving back from the train station, my best friend wasted no time cracking on with a game of Snakes and Ladders, and, to my surprise, we got on pretty well.
It took Number One a while to get on board with the concept that you can’t climb a snake or move forward a few squares just because you feel you haven’t moved in a while but, overall, the whole afternoon was a resounding, wholesome success. My friend made it all the more successful by refusing to bend the laws of ladders for Number One.
“Rules are rules, mister,” my friend playfully reminded him on more than one occasion as he spotted him moving his counter a few rows at a time when our adult backs were turned.
Instead of pulling a John McEnroe, Number One was surprisingly acquiescent and all went well, perhaps partly due to the fact we engineered a win for him.
Not because we wanted to pander but rather because the game, like that of Thrones, was starting to feel interminable.
Because as nice as it is to indulge in tradition, watching the telly for an hour can be nice too.
Especially when poor mammy, much to her mortification, has just sat on a whoopee cushion.
