“Marshall’s cheating,” Adella yells out. “It’s not fair.”
It is only seven o’clock in the morning. I do not have time for arguments. Arguments explode, creating bruised egos. And bruised egos need to be coaxed back to normality. These two cherubs need to eat breakfast, get dressed, comb their hair, and get out the door by 8:15.
Will this altercation pass, I wonder. Or do I need to address it head on?
My question is soon answered. Adella will not let it drop.
“I’m not playing with you. You’re not following the rules!”
They are playing with Marshall’s Pokemon cards, and I am pretty sure there are no rules. Unless Adella, the alpha, first-child, has made up some arbitrary rules that Marshall, the diplomatic second child, must follow. I am pretty sure that despite all her seven-year-old erudition, even Adella has no idea what the real rules are for playing with a deck of Pokemon cards.
“But who will play with me?” Marshall asks.
There are so many things I need to do: finish washing some dishes left from last night, empty the dishwasher, clean off the kitchen table, help Marshall and Adella with their morning tasks, make myself presenable, pack my swimming bag, and maybe if there is any extra time, pack my suitcase for a flight to Seattle that afternoon.
But his plea is so plaintive. And I realize if I do not take the time to play with Marshall, we will never get out the door. Playing Pokemon is a stitch in time. I turn off the faucet, wipe my hands, and head for the family room.
“I will play with you Marshall,” I say.
“You have to sit here, Granma,” he says pointing to a spot next to a black folder he has placed on the carpet as a playing mat. He sits opposite me.
Drats, I think. Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor greatly limits my ability to multi-task. I cannot help but wonder if this is part of his plan. Does he know how much effort it takes me to get up off the floor?
“You get four cards and I get four cards,” Marshall directs.
Well, maybe there are some rules, I think. I simply need to figure them out quickly enough to lose as quickly as possible so I can get back to my tasks.
“You put down a card. I put down a card and we see who wins,” he says.
Simple enough. Except that I am unsure what criteria determines who wins these battles.
He puts down a Mewtwo with 130 HP. I deliberately chose a Wartortle with only 70.
“You win Granma,” Marshall says genuinely excited, his diplomacy shining.
And I am reminded that he is only four. Marshall can only count to 20. He still says “One zero” when he sees the number 10. He has no idea that 130 number is greater than 70.
He puts my winning cards to the side of the mat. “Let’s do it again,” he says as he lays another card down.
It is a fire Pokemon. Perhaps he is using card type to determine which card wins. Surely a Vulpix, a fire pokemon, will destory a grass Pokemon, I reason. I play a Bulbasaur.
But in Marshall’s world, the Bulbasaur wins.
“You win again, Granma,” he says, overjoyed, as he places my winning hand to the side, atop my previous hand.
This is not going as planned at all. I am never going to lose at this rate. So I abandon reason and settle in.
He puts down another card. I randomly pick another one. It looks weak. But who am I to judge?
“You win again, Granma,” Marshall squeals for a third time. Is he trying to make sure I win as much as I am trying to make sure I lose, I wonder.
We each have one card left. Perhaps I will bring this game to a quick finish by winning. I can only hope.
But not to be. Marshall decides we need more cards, so he picks up the discarded cards and hands half of them to me. Clearly the rules of this game are fluid.
The redistribution of the cards works in Marshall’s favor. He rallies, winning three battles in a row. And just as I think he is about to win the game, he announces, “We need more cards.” This time, he gets up and runs downstairs, searching for some of his secret stashes.
Is it worth the effort in getting my sluggish, grandma body off the floor, only to have to sit back down again, I wonder. I decide to give Marshall a few minutes.
And as I wait, in-between reviewing my stymied to-do lists, I reminisce about my son Daniel. Twenty years ago, he had a Pokemon poster with all 151 Generation 1 Pokemon on the bedroom wall next to his bed. Daniel earnestly tried to school me at bedtime, teaching me all the Pokemons’ names, their types, their strengths and weakenesses, their stages of evolution. Daniel was a third child, so I confess that most nights I often employed the tried-and-true parental skill of feigned interest: I repeated names and words just enough to appear to be listening. So, despite Daniel’s constant drilling, I never really got beyond mimicking Pikachu’s stoccato lilt when saying its name, and recognizing that Charizard, the Pokemon on his most valued card, had evolved from a Charmander and Charmeleon.
Who knew I would live to rue my inattention? That a fad that I thought had long since passed would be new once again.
“I found some more cards,” Marshall says as he runs back holding up two more cards. “And this one is legendary.” He hands me the other, non-legendary card.
“Legendary?” I question, hoping for clarification. But there is none.
“Yes, legendary,” he says as he plays it.
Where has he learned this word, I wonder. From Adella? Or a friend at preschool? I look at card. Is it truly legendary? I can see nothing that distinguishes it from any of the other cards.
Alas, its legendary status does not help it, for my card beats it.
“You win, Granma,” Marshall shouts. “You win the game.”
He celebrates. He is truly happy for me. I am just baffled. Clearly he is a second child, I think. Adella never would have let me win the first hand.
“Let’s play again,” Marshall says.
And I am caught. I have no choice but to play again. How can I not? What self-respecting grandmother could walk away? Marshall needs his turn to win, his turn to shine.
Then I wonder, is this all part of his plan. Does he let me win because he knows I will not be able to walk away? Is this his strategy to keep me playing? Surely he must be bound for a career in the diplomatic service in a post-Trumpian world. Or am I getting ahead of myself? My world view must be a bit askew if I am attributing such subtle, sophisticated machinations to a four-year-old.
Nonetheless, we play another game, much like the first. We play several more hands. Never am I able to discern any pattern to the winning hands. And just when I am certain he will claim victory this time, he throws his hands up and enthusiastically shouts, “It’s a tie. Granma, we tied.”
This time I cannot allow his winsome wiles to derail us. We have miles to go. I need to be proactive, to squelch any tugs at my heartstrings.
“That was fun,” I say and before he has time to suggest a third round, I add, “But we can’t play any more. We must hurry to make it to your swimming lesson. ”
So we send Adella off with Pop Pop and we scurry out the door into the car, legendary card and all. And as we debate whether one stops or goes at red traffic lights (our ritual every car ride), I briefly glance back to see him admiring his legendary Pokemon card, holding it up to the car window. Because my part of our debate is rote, having learned it over many drives, I have time to ponder today’s Pokemon game, indeed, a game for the ages.
Not only was Marshall able to entice me to begin the game, but he was also able to entrance me to continue. Is it an innate trait in the wiring of a second child that enables him to elicit my grandmaternal instincts? After all, cuteness in babies, and puppies for that matter, is an evolutionary trait according to a recent study out of Oxford University that concluded “cuteness helps infants to survive by eliciting care-giving,” Is Marshall a highly evolved, cute second-child eliciting attention?
Or has the constant tug-of-war for adult attention with his elder sister pushed him to learn this behavior? His mother tells me that he has long since learned to concede to Adella as he vies with her for the best car seat, the remote control or the opportunity to explain something to an adult. Not able to command attention as quickly or as completely as a first-child, has he learned the dance of acquiescence and negotiations, and the subtleties of charming adults?
“Granma, help!” Marshall wails, ending my ruminating. “My legendary Pokemon--it’s gone.”
His joy, delight, and diplomacy have evaporated. Just tears and raw emotion. He is distraught. I pull over. I stop the car and turn around to assess. That legendary Pokemon that he had been balancing on the lip of the weatherstripping that does not quite hug the car window has slipped down into that narrow space between it and the window. It is gone.
I get out and go around to open his car door. I roll the window up and down several times, hoping the card will somehow magically appear. (Is it not legendary, after all?) It does not. It is forever lost to the abyss of the car door innards.
“I’m sorry I can’t get it,” I say.
Marshall is inconsolable. “Maybe you can get Pop Pop to smash the door in. Then we can get it,” he suggests through his sobs.
“I don’t think we can do that,” I say. Despite its legendary status, I suspect the value of this Pokemon card is not equal to the expense of destroying a car door. “Maybe I can buy you a new legendary Pokemon,” I suggest. “Will that work?”
What I do not say is that his tears have kicked my grandmaternal instinct into high gear. I am ready to buy him a hundred legendary Pokemon. Provided they are as inexpensive as I think they are.
He nods through his sniffles, satisfied that his grandmother can make his loss whole.
And I will. After swimming lessons. That is, if I can figure out just what a legendary Pokemon is. Oh, if I’d only listened to Daniel all those years ago.
