While I successfully kicked my time-consuming, brain-cell-depleting Bubble Safari habit earlier in the summer, there was one little Facebook vice I simply could not abandon: Words with Friends (okay, and Scrabble).
The boys, crestfallen when I stopped playing games with monkeys shooting at bubbles, settled for becoming spectators in my daily word games. They learned the names of my opponents, pointed out when I was winning (and when I was losing). ‘Uh oh, she’s beating you!’ ‘Oh, you’re beating she!’ And they learned the tricks of the game – mainly to avoid giving your opponent access to the dreaded triple word score square and memorizing the two-letter words QI, XI and ZA.
This valuable ‘education’ proved to be just the training they needed to start playing real, on-the-board Scrabble with moi.
These games have been one of the highlights of our summer. (At least for me, and I’m guessing also for them since they keep asking me to play.) There isn’t a ton of fighting between the boys during the game. And the Gort is becoming increasingly adept at formulating words using the seven letters on his tile rack. So much so that he beat three not-entirely-unclever adults in a game one Sunday night. Admittedly with a teensy bit of help, because nobody minds losing to an eight year old.
Well, once, anyway.
Though the Hen can’t read or formulate words beyond ‘h-a-t’, he has become decidedly picky about the words he’ll allow others to make on his behalf. Rather, about the scores he’ll accept from others acting on his behalf.
‘That would be eight points,’ the professor announced when he’d added up the score from the Hen’s word. Our middle boy shook his head. As if to say, ‘not acceptable, you need to do better.’
And, who can blame him. I stepped out for an appointment during one of our games last week. When I returned, the professor had ‘helped’ the Hen score 87 points. With one word.
No wonder he turns up his nose at an honest 8 points.