The Stupid Stupid Game

My oldest son has always had a quiet, wicked sense of humour.


Not loud, wicked. Not show-off wicked. The dangerous kind. The kind that sits still, says nothing, and waits to see if anyone notices what he has already done. The kind that walked out of a room with a smirk, and if nobody understood why, it made him smile more.

One Thanksgiving, we were at my sister’s house, and the whole family was packed into her little living room. Sisters, brother, spouses, Grandma, children everywhere. Far too many people were trying to fit into far too little space, but somehow we all did because that is what families do.

The little girls were running around, squealing over some mystery only little girls understood. Two would run away laughing, the third would chase them, and then all three would collapse into giggles before starting again. The adults were talking over each other. The men were shooting the… whatever men shoot when turkey is nearby, and they have found a corner to stand in.

My nephew was on the couch playing a video game. He was about six or seven then, sweet and full of little-man bravado, already trying to be bigger than he was. He had the controller in his hands and his whole serious little self pointed at the TV.

I was not really in a conversation, so I was just looking around the room when I noticed my son behind one of the couches.

Quiet, as usual. But not usual.

Too quiet.

He had this tiny twisted smile on his face, the kind he got when something was funny but he was trying not to let the world know yet.

I looked at him with a questioning frown.

What?

He pointed with his chin toward his cousin.

My nephew was still playing, completely focused.

I looked back at my son.

His smile got worse. Not bigger exactly. Worse. Like it was trying to behave and failing.

My nephew started muttering at the screen.

My son’s face started turning red.

I looked at him again, harder this time.

What are you doing?

He did not answer. Of course, he did not answer. That would have ruined everything.


My nephew shifted on the couch, irritated now, pressing the buttons harder, leaning forward as if moving his whole body closer to the TV might fix whatever was going wrong.

My son was nearly shaking from holding in the laugh.

Then, very slightly, from behind the couch, he raised his hands.

And there it was.

The second controller.

The little turkey.

He was controlling the game from behind the couch and quietly destroying everything his cousin was trying to do.

My nephew snapped.

“Stupid game!”

He tried again.

My son’s shoulders were silently shaking up and down from his barely controlled laughter. Poor little guy stood no chance against him.

My nephew jolted up shouting, “UGH! STUPID GAME!!! STUPID, STUPID, STUPID, STUPID GAME!!!!”

Then he threw his controller onto the couch and stomped out of the room, face cherry red and twisted in complete frustration.

That did it.

My son finally burst out laughing. He has the funniest laugh, and he was busting open uncontrollably. His face was red, his eyes spilling tears from laughter and barely able to catch a breath in the midst of it.

As much as I wanted to be the responsible parent and tell him that was not nice, the truth was that I thought it was hilarious, and I could only burst out laughing too. Because truthfully, it was not the nicest thing to do, but it was also perfectly, silently, wickedly hilarious.

A few minutes later, my nephew marched back into the room, dragging his dad beside him to prove to an adult that the “STUPID, STUPID GAME” was broken.

Once his cheeks had calmed down from bright red to regular child colour, my son, still laughing, apologized.

My nephew adored him, so he forgave him quickly. He even laughed.

But then I saw it.

A little smirk started to form as a tiny flash of mischief crossed my nephew’s face.

Oh no.

The lesson had landed.

Somewhere, some poor big brother was about to have a very interesting date with a controller very soon.

I can only smile when I remember.

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