Last night the boys and I played a rollicking game of Sorry. It went something like this:
“Isaac, slow down. Count one for each square.”
“Okay Dad. ONE(whack)TWO(whack)THREE(whack)…”
“He’s shaking my pieces off the board!”
“Okay.” (whispering) “one(tap)two(tap)three(tap)…”
“Your turn, Eli.
“Oh.” The boy draws a Sorry card. He plays it on Caleb, while saying “S-O-R-R-Y” with a big corn-eating grin that indicates anything but contrition.
“I n-e-v-e-r win!”
“No melodrama, Caleb.”
I demonstrate melodrama by putting the back of my hand to my head and falling across the table in fake misery.
“Cut it out Dad.”
“My turn.” I draw a card. I calculate how to move pieces without sending any of my children back to Start. “Your turn Isaac.”
For those of you who are curious, Isaac won. This made him very happy, while confirming to Caleb that he is cursed by the Sorry gods. Eli, on the other hand, needed a couple of minutes to realize the game had ended.