Cooperative Board Games for Families

Learning to lose gracefully is a valuable lesson, but as my kids grow closer to competing with me as equals, losing stings them a little more, too.

I had heard that some cooperative board games lurk in the specialty stores beyond Target and Toys R Us. This Christmas I decided to do some research to locate a new family game for my lovely spouse and me to play with our kids (10 and 12) and any visitors.

Here's how I categorize games in terms of competitiveness and cooperation:

Competitive	The games I grew up with like Monopoly or Sorry. I include games that encourage self-interested alliances, like teaming up on someone in Risk.
Teams	Players on one team cooperate against other teams. A lot of party games like Catch Phrase (one of our favorites) fall into this category.
1 vs. Many	Games in which everyone else cooperates against a single player. Scotland Yard, mentioned below, is an example.
Cooperative	I think of these like group solitaire: all the players compete against the game itself. Either the team wins or the team loses. These are the games I wanted to explore this year.

The lines aren't always clear. Some games start with a common goal, but later compel players to seek their own interests. Many games that purport to be cooperative feature a "traitor mechanic," revealing mid-game that one player is actually working against the others.

A friend curious about non-competitive games asked me to share my notes, so here's my list, with the games I like best for our family near the top.

BoardGameGeek.com and Games Magazine are great resources, as well as many other online reviews and vendors. These personal notes contain mistakes, I'm sure. I'll try to correct any that are reported.

I included links to Amazon for some of my favorites. For the others, try my favorite online source for boardgames: House Full of Games.

Once we've played any of these, I'll post an update.

Space Alert

Players	1—5
Duration	Less than 30 minutes
Approx. cost	$39
Theme	The board is a schematic of a spaceship. Players move around it and respond to various threats, working together to keep the spaceship intact. It comes with a CD that announces alerts and keeps the game on schedule. The CD's a bit gimmicky, but fun, I hope.
I liked	Short play-length. It's hard to find blocks of 90 minutes or more, and it's very hard to invite guests to a long game, because it takes a while to teach it, and generally people can't enjoy a game fully the first time anyway.
I didn't like	I'm concerned it might be a little abstract for my 10-year old, but I think the spaceship-under-threat theme will appeal to her.

Forbidden Island

Players	2—4
Duration	30 minutes
Approx. cost	$14
Theme	Players struggle to capture treasures from a sinking, tropical island and to evacuate everyone to safety. The island is made up of tiles randomly arranged each game. The difficulty is adjustable.
I liked	Apparently Pandemic is hugely popular, so I take it as a good sign that folks refer to this as Pandemic-lite. It's also inexpensive.

Scotland Yard

Players	3—6
Duration	45 minutes
Approx. cost	$27
Theme	One player is a crook. Others are detectives. The board is a map of London, showing subway stops and train stations and the like. The detectives are trying to position themselves at the same place as the crook to catch him, but all they have to go on are clues about what kind of transportation he took.
I liked	I sneaked this game in because I remember it fondly from my own childhood. It's easy to learn, and I like that it supports up to six players.
I didn't like	It's not really a cooperative game; it's a 1 vs. Many kind of game. Is there a risk that one detective will dominate the other players and tell them where to move?

Castle Panic

Players	1—6 (best with 4?)
Duration	60 minutes
Approx. cost	$25
Theme	Players represent archers, knights, and swordsmen defending a cardboard castle as monsters close in. Players position themselves and trade cards that enable them to fight the monsters.
I liked	Very easy to learn. It's possible to play this in a truly cooperative fashion, although the primary game is designed to treat the most successful defender as "the winner."
I didn't like	I'm a little concerned the compressed-cardboard castle pieces won't stand up to wear.

Shadows over Camelot

Players	3—7
Duration	90 minutes
Approx. cost	$40
Theme	Players are knights of the round table. Various threats endanger Camelot and the players go on quests to defeat them. Cards are involved.
I liked	High-quality components. I've played some other games by Days of Wonder, and they generally do a nice job.
I didn't like	A little long for us. The reviews are mixed: people seem to love or hate this game, comparing it favorably or unfavorably to Battlestar Galactica.

Pandemic

Players	2—4
Duration	45—60 minutes
Approx. cost	$25
Theme	Players represent specialized roles in the Centers for Disease Control, trying to contain and cure disease outbreaks around a map of the world. Drawing and trading cards are involved. An optional $25 expansion allows for a 5th player and makes it possible to turn it into a competitive game in which one player betrays the others as a bio-terrorist.
I liked	This game is very popular with a loyal following. It's said to work well with just 2 players. The difficulty is adjustable. I think it might be a little educational too between its world map and epidemiological theme.
I didn't like	Camille wondered if the theme of deadly diseases spreading around the world is unpleasant and scary. After seeing that some players made big-eyed Sculpey figures to use in place of the wooden blocks representing the viruses, I'm not so sure, but I can see that the real-world setting might be scarier than Camelot or a spaceship.

Red November

Players	3—8
Duration	60 minutes
Approx. cost	$19
Theme	Players are on a sinking submarine with an over-heating reactor and a sea-monster outside. They cooperate to defend the vessel. The game board is a schematic of the sub.
I liked	The game seems to have a sense of humor; the art is simple and colorful. The price is attractive, and the components are said to be nice.
I didn't like	If the ship starts to sink, I believe the game becomes every-man-for-himself as players struggle to be first off.

Break the Safe

Players	2—4
Duration	30 minutes
Approx. cost	$100 new or $20 used?
Theme	The gameboard is a building blueprint—it reminds me of Clue—with a big plastic 30-minute timer in the center. Players have to cooperate to defeat booby traps and obtain the four keys that stop the clock.
I liked	Very easy to learn; good for kids. It's by Mattel—I think this one actually was in stores like Toys R Us.
I didn't like	It's out of print—so I'd have to find it used online. Serious game-players say this game wears off quickly because it's so simple.

Lord of the Rings

Players	2—5
Duration	60 minutes
Approx. cost	$35
Theme	The players take on the roles of Hobbits, each with a special skill, and proceed through some of the action from the books, attempting to destroy the evil ring.
I liked	It's very popular. Somehow the gameboard and goals vary from one play to the next—I'm not sure how this works.
I didn't like	As I understand it, if one Hobbit dies, the others continue to play. I'd prefer a game that we all win or lose together. Also I'm concerned the rules might be a bit complicated. Is this game really for Lord of the Rings fans?

My notes on the games below are less thorough because I dismissed these pretty quickly.

Vanished Planet

Players	1—6
Duration	60 minutes (possibly longer?)
Theme	In a science fiction setting, something threatens the players' home planets. They trade cards and manage resources in order to defeat the threat.
I didn't like	It had some great reviews, but the play time seemed long, and the game board, hexes on an outer space background, looked a little too abstract to appeal to our family. A review said the game appeals to "cerebral" players. Would it be too much work to enjoy or share with others?

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective

Players	1—6
Duration	60 minutes
Notes	This old game (1981), looked really interesting: perhaps more like a Choose Your Own Adventure story or a How to Host a Murder mystery than a game. It comes with a detailed map and some books. I'm curious, but wanted a more traditional board game.

Betrayal at House on the Hill

Players	3—6
Duration	60 minutes
Notes	Looks great, but somebody always acts as a traitor, and I didn't want a game that would encourage us to backstab each other, or more specifically to impugn everything our little sister says.

Defenders of the Realm

Players	1—4
Duration	90 minutes
Notes	It's reviewed very favorably, but described as a longer, more complex cousin to Pandemic. I guess if Forbidden Island is called Pandemic-Lite, then maybe this is Pandemic-Heavy? My family aren't serious gamers yet, so I avoided this one.

Minion Hunter

Players	1—6
Duration	60 minutes
Approx. cost
Theme	Players cooperate to stop various supernatural creatures from taking over a map of America. Kind of like Buffy the Vampire-Slayer?
I liked	It looks interesting and has many fans.
I didn't like	A bit pricey and hard-to-find. Too much like Dungeons and Dragons with its tracking of statistics like "empathy" and "stalking" and "combat"? Nightmare-inducing?

Ghost Stories

Players	1—4
Duration	60 minutes
Notes	Popular and favorably reviewed, but said to be very difficult. I also wonder if the theme is a little difficult to share with new players, incorporating concepts like Taoist monks and Chinese myth.

Fury of Dracula

Players	2—5
Duration	2 hours
Notes	A 1 vs. Many game that is likened to Scotland Yard, but very long and possibly nightmare-inducing.

Arkham Horror

Duration	2 hours
Notes	This game gets a lot of attention and seems to be sort of an iconic cooperative game. But the spooky theme and long play time aren't right for us, and the rules are said to be difficult.

Saboteur

Players	3—10
Duration	45 minutes
Approx. cost	$15
Notes	Some players say it needs seven or more people to play well. I couldn't figure out if this game is ever truly cooperative, but at least some of the time, one player betrays the others.

Witch of Salem

I saw it compared unfavorably to Arkham Horror.

Space Hulk: Death Angel

A cooperative card game that seems reminiscent of the old Alien movie. I didn't want a card game.

London's Burning

A solitaire game in which a player controls aircraft attempting to defeat the Luftwaffe in World War II. I understand there is a 2-player option, but we want at least 4 players.

Descent: Journeys in the Dark

I avoided games like this and Doom because one player serves as a "game master," like in Dungeons and Dragons. I wanted a game that everyone could play without a moderator.

Somewhere in China

The reviews seemed unfavorable.

Maze

Supports two players only?

These games all shared play-times of more than 2 hours. I know some families who dedicate that much time to gaming, but we're not among them. (Secretly I kind of wish we were . . . )

• Battlestar Galactica
• Middle-Earth Quest
• Thrilling Tales of Adventure
• Dark, Darker, Darkest
• Chill: Black Morn Manor
• Magic Realm

These games seemed more suitable for kids younger than our 10 and 12-year olds.

• Max
• Caves and Claws

These games made my initial list, but a quick check led me to believe they weren't truly cooperative.

• A Touch of Evil: The Supernatural Game
• Duels of Ages
• Last Night on Earth: Zombie Game (One vs. Many)
• Princess Ryan’s Star Marines
• Inkognito
• Vampire Hunter
• Republic of Rome
• Doom (One vs. Many)
• Shadow Hunters
• Svea Rike
• Battlestations

Upwards and Upwards

When the batteries finished charging, Nathaniel came running. "I'm going to fly it now," he said with precisely the sort of confidence that prevents the army from hiring 11-year olds to pilot Apaches.

Outside the tops of the pines swayed, slightly but steadily. "I don't know . . . " I said. "It's pretty breezy. Maybe we should go out early tomorrow, when it will be still."

He sneered at such cowardice. "Dad." He pointed at the box. "It says 'Ages 8 and Up.' It's not going to be hard."

"Did you even read the instructions?" I squinted at the tiny paper and quoted to him: "Persons than fourteen younger should be precluded as piloting aircraft for crashings and dangerous."

Two minutes later I was hauling outside a sheet of plywood to serve as a landing pad. He put the tiny helicopter down and stepped back. His T-shirt billowed and rippled around his belly as he paused dramatically, the remote extended in front of him.

He pushed the throttle to full. The toy shot into the air, corkscrewing wildly. Before I could yell, he had released the control. The chopper hit the earth spinning sideways and fell over.

"Okay," I began to preach. "You have to be gentle with the controls. You should barely be touching them at . . . "

"Did you see that!?" he exploded. "It was FLYING! I told you it wouldn't be hard."

The second attempt went like the first: up eight or ten feet, then back down hard, spinning the whole time.

"Can I try?" I asked. "I want to go slow with it."

He looked at me skeptically, then shrugged and handed me the controller.

Very slowly I spun the rotors. Still on the ground, the body of the helicopter started to pirouette.

"Come on, Dad. Just fly it."

Ignoring him, I adjusted the tail rotor very slightly . . . the pirouetting grew faster . . . ah, the other way . . . yes, at last the spin was slowing down.

I hardly noticed a particularly stiff breeze until the delicate toy slid off the edge of the plywood. Its landing gear caught in the grass and a blade bit hard into the earth.

Sure enough, the plastic landing gear was split in two places. Now the helicopter couldn't even stand.

"I'm really sorry." I had broken his toy without ever leaving the ground.

He grinned. "Let's fix it!" I followed him into the house: super glue, hot glue, no success. Finally I cut a piece of packing foam, unscrewed the broken landing gear and replaced it with foam. It was bulkier than the airy plastic, but still small and lightweight.

Back outside, the breeze was an irregular wind now, erupting from different directions in unpredictable coughs.

He balanced the helicopter on our plywood. Before he even stepped away, the wind knocked it onto its side again.

I waved him away and righted it. I started to get up. "Okay, now this time try to—"

But Nathaniel wasn't going to miss his launch window. The helicopter sprang up inches past my face, corkscrewing slowly as it rose, the air batting it like a ping pong ball in a lottery machine.

At last I stopped talking. It was all up to him now.

Higher and higher. A gust sent it toward the house, but it cleared the eaves and the wind carried it over the roof.

"He'll bring it down to the driveway on the other side," I thought. "At least I won't have to get the ladder."

But he pushed on, spiraling upwards and upwards in a dizzying, wild, uncertain ascent—like the way Jules Verne imagined travel to the moon, or like how it feels to learn something new, or like the way a boy grows—over the house, past the driveway, accelerating away to the edge of the pine woods, a horizon of treetops dancing 50 feet off the ground.

We heard a crack of breaking plastic. I could just make out a splash of red swaying atop the green sea. Someday it might shake loose, but it was gone.

I turned to Nathaniel, warning myself not to lecture him but to sympathize with the loss of his new toy.

"That was great!" he beamed. "How are you going to get it down?"

Children and Chessboards

Last night we watched Searching for Bobby Fischer, the old, based-on-a-true-story movie about a chess prodigy whose parents struggle to support his genius while cultivating his humanity. I recommend it.

Our kids also liked it. I suppose any movie that portrays a child sympathetically and shows a father embarrassing himself time and again has an undeniable appeal, but I didn't expect Jessica to spring out of bed at 6:00 this morning and challenge me to a game of chess. The movie inspired an appetite for the game. All those close-ups of queens and knights slamming around to kettle-drum sound effects must have given chess a new allure.

Our kids are true beginners, only just knowing the rules. Last summer we befriended a serious chess player who taught them the basics. With infinite patience he kept maneuvering his pieces into peril. Nine out of ten times my kids would overlook their opportunities, but when they saw a chance, they beamed with triumph at having put one past him. As they captured, he would quietly shake his head in mock self-disgust.

He made an observation that stuck with me: "I like chess because I can't remember so well anymore. Playing cards you have to remember what's been played or what's bid or which card is wild this hand. But with chess, everything is right in front of you."

It wasn't so long ago that our children lived only in the present. And the immediacy of their lives still surprises me. How lightly they move past an argument! They can trade hateful words with each other, forgive and forget, and start playing anew--all while my pulse is still racing.

But gradually they're developing a more adult sense of time. They draw on a history of memories and make plans. After my son and I finished a Starcraft battle last weekend, he recalled in eager detail how his forces waxed and waned as our various stratagems played out.

I wonder if the immediacy of a game like chess holds a special appeal for the little child still in them. So much of childhood is waking up a new person each day, able at last to reach the counter-top or read the grandfather clock or recognize your name written out. Each morning you're effectively someone else.

My daughter has to live in the present. Her mind grows so fast that its memories belong to a person who no longer is.

For me it's the past that is inescapable. I'm confident I can speak in public because I've done so before, but afraid to leave my job because I remember too clearly my angst at being without a paycheck.

I'm like cards. They're like chessboards.

Their history brought them where they are, but it shakes off easily. They pursue today's goals with fresh ardor, yesterday's despairs and dreams so irrelevant that their old gravity is already forgotten.

Risks of Teaching the Old Testament

Numbers 14:27

How long will this wicked community grumble against me? I have heard the complaints of these grumbling Israelites.

Camille was speaking to Jessica about what motivated the September 11 terrorists:

"There were a lot of reasons. They don't like America. They're mad that we support Israel...."

"I wouldn't support Israel."

I cringe. Are we raising an anti-Semite?

"Why not?" I ask.

"They're always grumbling and complaining."

Barbie and My Daughter on Math

I worked for Mattel when the Barbie doll was at its international peak, shortly after the Teen Talk Barbie notoriously proclaimed, "Math class is tough!" But really it was not her political gaffes but the Disney Princesses and their saucier sisters, the Bratz dolls, that dethroned Barbie.

When Jessica was almost seven, an English exercise required her to put the following words into a sentence: lettuce, magic, underground, and sweet.

Jessica's answers:

1. I ate the lettuce.
2. Math is magic.
3. Satan is underground.
4. I am sweet.

Camille commented, "I should be bothered by number 3, but number 2 is the one that really disturbs me."

Moonlight and Love Songs: Never Out of Date

I'm much too young to remember, but I seem to recall reading a line from Jimmy Durante. Somebody said to him "You're no Caruso!" and he responded with something like: "It's true I ain't. But sometimes I sing so pretty I could break my own heart."

I'm shy to a fault and can't carry a tune, but I've always sung to the children.

The first song I remember sharing with them was Dream a Little Dream, a good song for rocking a baby.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me.

Jessica has always wanted to sing, too. Before she could say her prayers, she struggled to sing Taste and See, her favorite hymn.

Years later when I walked almost daily to the library with kindergarten-aged Jessica, I turned her love of song to my advantage. She protested these trips terribly. But I would sing on the way, and she eventually stopped fussing and joined in.

I love you
For sentimental reasons
I hope you do believe me
I've given you my heart

That one must have sunk in: I once overheard her explain to a doll that there's not just one, but "sanny many reasons" for people to love each other.

Both kids also protested at having their teeth brushed, and I fought those complaints with song too, picking disco or techno dance tunes in case Camille overheard. (I like to give my love a chuckle.) Many uninspired lyrics have I sung into Jessica's gaping, foaming mouth while she rolled here eyes helplessly.

Mostly our children are growing up on the lyrics to old standards. I didn't. My earliest memories include Mom listening to soft rock and Motown while driving, but by the time I was eight or nine she had shifted to non-vocal arrangements. When I finally discovered Cole Porter and Lorenz Hart, I was enchanted. In college I worked my way through my grandparents' LPs, and though I never cared for Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra, I love the words to their songs.

Camille, on the other hand, grew up with a father who might at any moment erupt into clamorous song. His singing charms our children, too, and he introduced much older songs to them: counting songs and alphabet songs with a romantic twist.

One, two, button your shoe.
Put on your coat and hat.
I play a game like that
While I'm waiting for you.

Three, four, open the door.
Hurry for heaven's sake.
I count each breath I take
While I'm waiting for you.

and

A you're adorable
B you're so beautiful
C you're a cutie full of charm
D you're delightful and
E you're exciting and
F you're a feather in my arms

One December day a couple of our children's friends visited. At the piano I started my stilted renditions of some carols. The visiting girl, who could already read easily, sat on the bench with me and began singing along. Jessica, unfamiliar with the words, so young she could hardly remember an earlier Christmas, was agape with envy. Perhaps the green-eyed monster did more than picture books did to propel her to early reading.

When Nathaniel was two, I made up a Good Morning song.

Good morning! Good morning!
It's time to wake up. It's time to go downstairs!
Although it's still night, I can turn on the light
So sleepy-heads beware.

Good morning! Good morning!
It's time to wake up. Get up, get out of bed!
We can play with our toys! We can make lots of noise!
Too bad for sleepy-heads!

It has a sort of upbeat circus tempo. I'm not sure from where I stole the melody--it always reminds me of Herod's song from Jesus Christ Superstar.

An early-riser, he loved it. We sometimes used it to wake up Mommy who didn't love it so much. At night he would ask me to sing it. And instead I would sing these lovely lines from Harry Revel, softly and slowly:

Good night, my love, the tired old moon is descending.
Good night, my love, my moment with you is now ending.
It was so heavenly, holding you close to me.
It will be heavenly to hold you again in a dream.

Then Nathaniel would plead until I finally gave him the Good Morning song and put him to bed. In my heart I agree with him: we should always fall asleep to the promise of morning.

Though eager to trot out his violin in front of strangers, Nathaniel is terribly embarrassed about singing. Altar-serving appeals to him partly because it allows him to wear a silent, stoic mien while the rest of the church is in song.

On the rare occasions when he has sung, he has always been a one-trick pony. In diapers he struggled to sing Chim Chim Cheree. Then he switched to Holly Jolly Christmas, but nothing else.

Oh, by golly have a holly, jolly Christmas this year!

That last line was a tongue twister for him, and I used to love the way he plunged through it, tossing random consonants onto the words.

That was displaced by the theme song from the Mighty Machines videos (low-budget tapes of construction trucks at work). Nathaniel did a yeoman imitation of the singer's guttural voice, but I don't think he ever made it all the way to my favorite line:

Liftin' and pullin' and flyin' so high. Building a building up to the sky.
You can watch them all day and never know why. They're Mighty Machines!

I recall a brief period when the only thing he sang was from the Muppet musical of Treasure Island.

Shiver my timbers, shiver my soul.
Yo, ho heave ho
There are men whose hearts are as black as coal.
Yo, ho heave ho

It's as dark a tale as was ever told
Of the lust for treasure and the love of gold
Shiver my timbers, shiver my sides
Yo, ho heave ho

After pirates lost their attraction he prided himself on his public performances of the theme from Star Wars. It has no lyrics so, with charming earnestness, he hummed it.

It occurs to me that my memories of our children's music must differ from theirs. When I was small, my brother and I played a handful of albums hundreds of times in the basement. My parents were busy upstairs, and today they would probably be surprised that I recall all the lyrics to Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music. These were etched into my developing brain alongside Mr. Rogers' piano melodies, Joe Raposo numbers from Sesame Street, and even some awful tunes from a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang record.

My children still fall asleep to CDs every night, and I bet those lullabies, Disney ballads, Mozart sonatas, Raffi songs, and Taizé chants that repeat endlessly in the dark sit deeper in their memories than the songs we sing together. But as a parent, I treasure the songs that unite us, the ones that bridge a generation.

Last summer I picked up a songbook from an antique store. Camille's parents, in their nineties, recognized songs from their own youth like these lines Alfred Bryan wrote seven years after the Wright brothers took off:

"Oh! Say! Let us fly, dear."
"Where, kid?" "To the sky, dear."
"Oh, you flying machine!"
"Jump in, Miss Josephine."

"Oh! Joy! What a feeling!"
"Where, boy?" "In the ceiling! . . . "
"Whoa! dear. Don't hit the moon!"
"No, dear, not yet--but soon!"

Last night I was alone banging out very old tunes like that one, songs from my parents' and grandparents' times, when I sensed someone at my shoulder. Jessica peered to find my place in the music. I pointed, and she picked up the melody and started to carry it forward:

If you knew Susie like I know Susie
Oh! Oh! Oh, what a girl!

There's none so classy as this fair lassie
Oh! Oh! Holy Moses! What a chassis!

Out in public how she can yawn,
But in a parlor, you would think the war was on!

If you knew Susie like I know Susie
Oh! Oh, what a girl!

I bet you're smiling, Mr. Durante. Wherever you are.

Bossing and Begging

Me, from the driver's seat, engine running, car in reverse, foot still down on the brake: "Are you belted in yet?"

Jessica, from the back seat: "So where are we going to meet Mom and Nathaniel? What time are we meeting them? How far is it?"

Me: "Could you please just get strapped in?"

Jessica, reaching idly for the seat belt: "I'm just asking what time we're going to meet them."

Me, handing her a coupon: "And hold this for me. Don't lose it."

Jessica clicking the belt at last: "Well, I guess that's the way it is. The parents get to boss the kids."

Me: "I'm not bossing you."

Jessica, indignant: "Yes, Dad. You're bossing me. That was a command." In her deepest voice: "'Hold this for me! Hold this for me!' That was a command, and it ended in an implorative period!"

I think she meant "imperative." On the other hand, bossing the kids can sure feel like imploring.

A Chip Off the Old Block

From my lovely spouse:

As we were doing our writing exercise this morning Jessica asked how to spell the word pretty. This was about her fifteenth spelling inquiry, and it was really slowing us down. (Also, she's an excellent speller and was doing this for dramatic effect. But I digress.)

I told her we'd make all corrections after we read what we'd written and she said, "But I can't. I'd just die if I don't spell it right." I retorted, "Well, we'll give you a lovely funeral and on your headstone we'll inscribe, 'If only she knew how to spell pretty.'"

At this point Nathaniel popped up and said, "Yeah and we'll spell the word wrong just as a joke."

Consequences of the Fall

Jessica, at the end of a long hike, was tired, thirsty, and impatient: "I wish everything was perfect," she complained.

I was about to remind her that nothing apart from God is when she added: "I wish when Eve saw that apple she just clapped her hands together and left it alone."

Taking Candy from a Baby

One-year old Jessica sat on my arm, her fingers prying into my lips, while I cleared dishes. She often used to touch me in the special way of someone who doesn't know what it means to poke out your eyes.

But soon her nails started scratching painfully at my teeth and gums while she peered into my mouth.

"What are you doing?" I laughed, holding her out at arm's length, knowing she would not answer.

"She smells the chocolate," Camille chimed in.

Ah, yes. I have a sweet tooth, and chocolate is my chief vice. Too often there's some in my mouth, and sure enough, Jessica was making for it.

• 
  

At nine years old, Nathaniel's taste is finally broadening. In fact yesterday he made himself a ham sandwich that incorporated strawberry jam, cheese, pickles, peanuts, and barbecue sauce.

But as a toddler, he had mysteriously transformed from an omnivore to a fussy eater. Camille and I were exasperated with trying to feed him a balanced diet.

"Just try the asparagus," I said. "You don't have to eat them all, but you have to eat two."

"I don't like them," he said, tears coming into his eyes. We had been through this before.

"You don't know you don't like them," I insisted. "You've never, ever eaten asparagus in your entire life." I was pretty sure he hadn't eaten it uncooked, anyway.

"I know what I like," he said. "I don't have to try it."

"How can you know what you like if you haven't even tried it? Maybe you'll love it."

"I always know what I like. I like Mac and Cheese. I like Cheerios. I like chocolate."

Something dark crept into my mind. "You don't always like chocolate," I said.

Scornful disbelief. "I always like chocolate."

"No," I said back at him slowly. "You don't know until you try." I pulled a box of baking chocolate from the cabinet. Unsweetened.

I set a square ceremoniously onto a clean plate. Without hesitation he took the bait. He was so sure of himself that for a fraction of a second he actually gloated at me in triumph. Then he ran to the bathroom.

As he frantically scooped water into his lips, I sermonized at him, "You don't know if you like something until you try it."

He never did eat the asparagus.

• 
  

We still control our children's diets, so treats are really treats for them. They greet a slice of birthday cake or a bowl of ice cream excitedly: Jessica has been known to quiver with heady anticipation.

Long ago I introduced the idea of testing for poison. How uncertainly she looked at me the first few times I carefully tasted a corner of a brownie while assuring her I was protecting her from possible harm. Now, even before a cookie hits her plate, she proclaims, "There's no poison in it, Dad! You don't have to test it."

Lately she's varying her routine. As I entered the kitchen yesterday morning, she leaned over her plate, spread her arms protectively, and called, "The Pop Tart shop is now closed!"

Among the many lovely things Camille does for me is to have the children copy and illustrate poems. Nathaniel recently chose Shel Silverstein's poem, "Poison-Tester." It includes lines like these:

. . . Mmm--it's OK, but these boysenberries--I'll make sure they're not poisonberries.
Mmm--no, they're safe, but that burger might be deadly.
Mmm-no, it's all right. And now I'll test your hot fudge sundae . . .

It's good to know I'm not the only dad who tests for poison.

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Both children love to help us cook. Lately the path to pancakes is strewn with bits of eggshells, and I've become expert at extracting them from our mixing bowls.

The children now also occasionally cook for us. I mean "cook" in the sense of adding milk to cereal or microwaving leftovers, but it pleases me to no end.

If Nathaniel is awake with me early in the morning, he'll sometimes offer to prepare a bowl of oatmeal for me while I shave. He tops it off with yogurt and nuts, just like a fancy restaurant. Somehow his tastes better.

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Situated between a Home Depot parking lot and the town dump, we have a wonderful local ice cream stand. Unlike the nearby Ben and Jerry's--understaffed, over-priced, and occasionally out of milk--it's a great spot. It means everything to Jessica that she can order her own ice cream.

Always I ask "Do you want to share one with me? We can get something really special." And always she answers "No, Dad. I want my own." And we buy her a "baby" sized cone, and she picks her flavor, and she's perfectly content.

Secretly I want her to share with me. There's some kind of a super-mega-ultra-lightning sundae on the menu, and I swear I'll buy it if she ever offers to share with me, just to make the point that good things come to those who share.

But I think I'll see her married first.