Sticks and Stones

Video games. A parent's best friend and worst nightmare. If you need your kid, your son probably, to sit quietly on a plane ride or long drive, a new video game is a godsend. But just when you're singing its praises and thinking, "Oh, a good 'ol video game isn't so bad," it gets in the way of the simplest activities, like blinking or urinating in a toilet.

In anticipation of a Spring Break vacation Bryon bought the boys Pokemon Black and Pokemon White for Nintendo DS. Apparently Pokemon Black and Pokemon White are hot right now and appeal to a range of players. I believe my 16-year-old nephew mowed down a few 8-year-olds to get his copy. (I'm looking at you John Wyatt.)

Well we didn't go anywhere and toward the end of our Spring Break stay-cation, when the wheels were really falling off, we agreed that nobody deserved a video game. But the boys caught on, and when they found out Pokemon Black and Pokemon White were in the house but not in their hot little hands, you would've thought we were depriving them of food and oxygen.

When we finally turned over the games, the boys had agreed to a new task/reward system that includes feeding the pets, doing dishes, making beds, guitar and drum practice, carrying groceries and kissing my butt as much as possible.

All was well until about 4:30 today when Sam lost his game. I don't understand how this happens with kids but he was lying across Jake's bed playing the game, game in hand. Not 30 seconds later, it had disappeared.

My kids have two ways to look for lost things. One, they stand in a single spot and spin, much like a water sprinkler. Or, they remove all the cushions from the couch.

This afternoon I was working and in the middle of something a little confusing so I told Sam he had to look on his own for 10 minutes before I could help.

"You're a big help," he yelled at me, before stomping upstairs, to sprinkler-spin presumably.

I was simultaneously hurt and angered by his remark. On one hand, he was right. I wasn't helping at all. A kinder, gentler mother would probably sigh and get up and smile while turning over rugs and lifting furniture.

On the other hand, there comes a time, somewhere after a ninth birthday I have decided, that "you lost it, you find it." I never saw these video games; they went straight from Bryon to the boys to their DS to the sanctum of lost toys. I didn't ask Sam to help me find my favorite bottle of nail polish or my black flats.

But a few minutes after the hurtful remark, I went up to help him and sure enough he was standing in the middle of his room staring. Since he had been lying on Jake's bed, I went over and flicked the bedspread and sure enough, there was the game.

Now if I could just find my flats.