Another day, another drubbing at noughts and crosses at the hands of my 5-year-old son. We played seven games and I only won two – and I had to really try for my last victory because I began to worry he’d question my credibility if he won all the games. I mean I’m not good at games (it’s a concentration thing) but even I wouldn’t be so shit as to lose eight simple children’s games in a row, right? Right?
We had a little chart totting up the scores, and at the end I wrote “winner” under his name. He picked up the pencil to write “loser” under mine, but before he could begin I delivered a surprisingly on-point – for 7.30am on a Sunday – pontification on not calling other people losers.
He picked up my message straightaway:
Ironically, I’m taking this as a massive triumph for Sloth Mother. The lesson that celebrating besting others isn’t always admirable would never be endorsed by a Tiger Mother!
(Unfortunately my “not winner” status means I’ll never have a chance to be Charlie Sheen’s Hot Steno, despite having a highly refined capability to do steno while wearing trackpants. Fuck it.)