Houlder and Dell playing Risk March 2011

 

 

Being strategic is not my natural strength.  Unlike my sweet calculating son who has spent hours amusing himself trying to best himself in chess, stratego and risk, I am a fly the seat of my pants player.  Hoping that some synapses somewhere kick in and save me from too much shame.  Fortunately the games engage me but not like the mathematical equation Dostoevsky's poor student contemplates.  More like Forest Gump.  Dude I am hanging on for dear life most moments.

So, having Houlder play Risk with Dell was an immense risk for my fortitude and a singular glorification of all that is good about Houlder.  Ordinarily it would be a heated game, with Dell perhaps winning not because he outsmarts but he connives and Houlder does not tolerate the constant rule changing and walks away from the, um, tantrum of my lovable sweet second child.

But yesterday, Houlder rose from his bed as his buddies Max and Jack visited.  Not sure if it was the sugar loading of divine brownies or Rita's Italian Ice but Houlder got his groove on for about an hour which is an hour more than we had seen in a few weeks.

Risk.  Really?

I pulled Dell into the kitchen to give him the pre-game chatter -- "Go easy.  He cannot remember squat.  Don't be a bugger and cheat."  Pure mother's pride spewing from my mouth.  Everything to be proud of -- the cheater and the feeble.  But who was who?

Much to Dell's chagrin and Houlder's delight, I told Houlder to take photos of his moves on the camera so that he could document the game should anything be called into question.  Dude, I spy a lie walking by...

So, is a mom proud or in denial?  Really, I recommended self-preservation of one for the demise of the other.  Sick soul am I.

What kind of freak recommends documentation for a simple board game?

What does this mother say when trickster child comes into kitchen for a drink to say, "Man, mom I am not even bringing my c game and I am killing him."  Good honey, keep winning?  Slow down honey.  Bring your failing game.

You see, I am not inherently a risk taker.  Yes I have four kids.  Some people have defined that as insanity and thereby a huge risk.  It is not.  For me, loving them, while some times sleep deprived and slightly grumpy from lack of consistent time for myself, loving them has been enough.  No, it does not pay the bills.  No, they don't clean up crap and neither do I.  Yes they annoy the bejesus out of me.  But, truly, loving them and William is the easiest and safest thing I have ever done.

But, really, Risk.

Nah.  I don't like horror flicks.  I like a good joke and raunchy is okay but there is a place that untoward jokes go that I cannot bear to go.  I love to laugh and am often inappropriate but there is this invisble line that when crossed everyone knows I am not going there.

Risk.  Really?

So, we don't have enough danger at the ready right now?

I feel as if every conversation with a medical practioner is a time to strap on some armor.  No one has been mean but dismissive is disheartening.  Ideas of diagnoses float freely, and I am not supposed to wiggy-out.  My kid has taken a medical leave from school, and I should continue like he is home for the weekend.  Of course no one is behaving badly, but I am depleted and frustrated and feel as if every word I document is a word that may or may not make the difference.  I am a day behind on his notes, but I am almost too full or too spent to figure out how to be unemotional and detached and report just the facts, please.

Because fools who have four kids are not looking at the facts people.  They act on impulse or just stupid as my father-in-law might argue.  Maybe that is the risk -- the lack of calculation we had in planning our lives.  The belief that serendipity and effort could form a family.  It has.  I am not obtuse or anything -- well not all the time at least.  But, dag-gone. 

Risk. 

And yes, the camera was used. 

As I lurked in the kitchen hoovering ultimately Houlder's fatigue and Dell's grace swooped in to save me from enduring another photo replay.  They decided to walk away until later.  Houlder just could not think.  How pathetic!  How kind! 

Risk.  This is it.  Do I leave the game out or get into a cleaning frenzy? 

Risk. Who will I alienate more?

Because really that is the line we dance around as parents.  How can we love them so desperately and yet nudge and encourage them in others?  I have no solution.  No plan.  I am sometimes amazed at the thoughts that cross my frontal lobes and grateful that I am not speedy speaker or shame would loom all around me.  I like to dance to my music in my way.  Loved those deadheads doing their own moves to the tune that they heard.  A few years back one of the greatest babysitters in the world, took a week off to go to Bonnaroo.  When she told us about the concert, I knew we had traveled to the land of "older."  No longer hip.  Not able to relate.  And who were those bands?  When she came back she told us about a venue she went into in which everyone wore his or her own headphone and danced to his or her own music.  At first I thought bizarro.  But, really, it is a deadhead dance in this century.  Everyone catching his or her own rhythm.  Everyone trying to find his or her own beat.

That's the risk.  Finding our own new beat.  I have never been to a Dead show depsite having a step brother who followed them and many friends who avowed their greatness.  But it was the beat, the dance, the beary little groove that always appealled to me.  Kind of like headphones at party where everyone finds a score.

Our risk.  To find the score.  The answer.  To man up and calculate the game and bring on the first string team to figure out what ails us.  There is our risk. 

Game on.

I still cleaned up the game.