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Hopscotch

She ran into the bedroom early, too early, in the morning to shake me awake and make her demands. “Daddy! Can I play Kirby? I really want to play Kirby.” My technophile daughter had a jones on for a Wii game she’d been playing since Christmas.

I am not opposed to kids using television or video games or computers or most technology, but even I, wannabe gamer raising a gamer girl in a gamer world, had to draw the line somewhere. I’d found it. It was at 9 am on a Sunday morning, before anyone had eaten breakfast and before I was even fully awake.

So, no. I told her “No, maybe later,” and awaited the plaintive butwhys. They came, and I endured, eyes still closed tight against the bright day. Not right now, not this early. Surely we can wait until at least afternoon to play video games.

I rolled out of bed and made some eggs and waffles, blearily tossing them down onto plates in front of the kids at the table. I have never been a morning person. Kids will turn you into one against your will, but you can still resist.

After breakfast, an epiphany. I dressed, quickly, and asked my daughter to get dressed as well. I dressed my son, and then ventured outside, where chalk remnants littered the lawn and sidewalk planters. Here I drew boxes, and wrote numbers.

Then I sat on my patio, and put on my sunglasses, closing my eyes tight against the bright day, and listened as hopscotch began, and turned into tag, and turned into hide and go seek. Laughter peeled. Two gamer kids gamed the morning away.

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