Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized
Super Smashed Mario Kart
November 11, 2014 manoucheri	Leave a comment
Mario Kart Wii Courtesy: Nintendo
Humble Pie.
We all eat it at some point in our lives. I should have seen my serving coming.
In the midst of my evening routine, which somehow included doing some of the kids' chores – mainly cleaning up the dishes for the meal I cooked for them – I was on to the next mountain. A mountain of laundry, that is. It was between folding brightly colored shirts with a platypus (they don't do much!) on it and being arm-deep in underwear that I felt eyes upon me.
When I turned around there were my three children, the boys and their sister, united, standing there like a set of pleading children from Oliver Twist looking at me.
"Will you play the Wii with us?"
I wasn't particularly certain where this was going.
"Pleeeaaassseee?!"
Bear in mind, I still had a couple loads of laundry left to wash and fold . . . and I hadn't yet made lunches for the evening. I told them as much.
"We'll help you with lunches. Please, Dad? Will you play Smash Brothers or Mario Kart with us," asked my daughter?
"Wellll…."
"Or could you play both?" my son asked a bit meekly. It's here, like a Marx Brothers movie, his brother smacked him, mumbling "don't push it or he won't play at all!"
I realized that I used to play video games with the kids quite a lot. That, however, was when their Mom was around to help take care of other things. I still had a virtual mountain of my own chores in front of me.
Of course, you know I had to agree.
The kids threw on Super Smash Bros. first. The title certainly wasn't a misnomer. After about two minutes, having seen my character get smashed, beaten, blown up, burned by lava and shot by a bow and arrow my daughter informed me "it's a button smash game, Dad!"
"Huh?" I grunted.
"You know, just hit buttons. Eventually you'll get someone."
I didn't.
We moved on to Mario Kart. I must admit, I fared much better. My daughter, in control of the console, however, had other ideas. Within two races – where, like a deranged version of NASCAR, you drive around a track picking up items and tossing them at your opponents – I was toast. My daughter picked tracks that had an uncanny ability to throw me off the screen and die in a bottomless pit.
"You can't use this track any more!" was my order.
"Yeah!" said her brothers. "She always chooses this one!"
"Because it's easy," my daughter rather wimpily said.
"NO IT'S NOT!" said three male voices in unison.
From here on I held my own. Four of us played. . . and on at least three occasions Dad came in 3rd. I never got better than that, but it's okay.
By late in the evening it was time to shower and get ready for school. I got hugs from all three kids. I hadn't seen such smiles and happiness in some time. All it took was Dad getting smashed by a turtle shell.
Of course, it was coming down the stairs that I realized that, yet again, I'd been had. I was making lunches by myself and had 3 hours of laundry left.
They totally played me. Again.
behaviorchildrendadDave Manoucherifatherour story beginsparenthoodparentingraising kidssingle dadsingle fathersingle parentstory beginsstorytellingwidowwidower
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