It’s quiet
time at the cottage (that’s a cabin for my American friends and colleagues).
Our youngest is in bed, pretending to sleep (he’s a sly one). The dogs are
curled up on the floor or stretched out on the couch. My wife is reading her
book (her eyes may or may not be open). I’m catching up on some of the blogs I
follow (courtesy of RSS – there’s no phone or internet here, but I synched up
when we went into town for supplies). Our older kids are looking for something
to do.
“Hey,” says
our oldest, scanning the bookshelf of board games “how about we play Monopoly?”
There may
have been a grumble from my wife’s direction. I chalk it up to post-traumatic
stress. Been there, done that.
I briefly
entertain the thought of warning the kids about the evils of Monopoly, particularly when played by
siblings, but I hold my tongue. This could be entertaining, watching an
“innocent” game devolve into arguments and accusations (I bet every game of Monopoly ends with a flipped playing
board). Besides, if somehow the game doesn’t turn sour, it’ll keep the kids
occupied for fifty or sixty hours.