Chess Nuts Boasting in an Open Foyer

So, apart from being handsome, funny, sweet, and bringing home all A's and B's this year, my little Duncan Disorderly is rapidly becoming quite the little chess whiz! Last weekend he participated in his second chess tournament ever...and came home with a third place trophy!

Being a chess mom is a somewhat unique position, differing from having kids in soccer, or band, or school plays. There are the practices, sure. But unlike their swim meets or band concerts, a chess tournament is an all-day commitment that we don't even get to watch. Parents come to play the Waiting Game. You sign your kid in, and when his first match-up is listed, you take him to the big hall filled with chess boards and nervous children, wish him luck, and return to the lobby to fidget and fret with the other parents, ready to either console or congratulate when that little guy finally comes through those double doors and his face tells you everything you need to know. Then the list of second round match-ups gets tacked to the wall and it all starts again.

Duncan's first tournament went better than I expected and rather ideally, I thought. Knowing my little guy's level of confidence, I really did hope that he would do not so well as to set up unreasonable expectations for future competitions, but well enough that he was not immediately discouraged from the whole tournament scene. Out of five rounds, he won three and lost two, coming in at ninth place in the final standings. Wouldn't you know - they gave trophies through eighth place, which disappointed him. But he got a feel for tournament play, a participation medal, and a taste for the competition. On the way home he told me with a smile, "I'm going to practice more for the next tournament...and I'm going to win."

And practice he did. When his own chess club hosted a tournament here in town last week, he cracked open his chess strategy workbook. And played his dad. And played my brother online. And when the Big Day came, hooo boy, was he excited.

The tournament began much as the last one had. In the first round, he was creamed by an older kid in a very short game and came back with shining eyes. I opened my arms to him and promptly received a hug that nearly broke my heart. There are hugs they give you in passing when they're happy, and there are hugs that you can just feel the need in. He melted into my arms and stayed there a long time, occasionally tightening his grip around my neck. I held on just as long as he needed me to...but when he broke off the embrace it was with a bit of an embarrassed look and an "Okay, Mom, you don't need to hug me so long!"

A few helpings of pizza and pep-talk later, he went into his second round feeling refreshed...and won it. And the next round. And the next round.

Going into the last round (the tournament was Swiss style, with five rounds and no elimination), the boy was fourth in the standings. Trophies were only given to third this time, so I knew the last round was do-or-die. Lose the round, and he would be coming home with nothing but the knowledge that he had again played rather well and been an outstanding sport. Win the round, and there was a good chance he'd be coming home with his very first trophy. And so off my little third grader went, paired off with an older kid, a sixth grader (whom I know from my lunch line, no less!) who Duncan had told me usually beat him at chess club meetings.

Folks, such butterflies I had! All through the tournament I had been proud of him. He'd made an impressive showing, playing chess better than I ever will, and through it all he'd been a good sport win or lose. I knew it would be all right if he lost....but wouldn't it be great if he won?

It was a long battle...in the end they were the second-to-last pairing to emerge. Duncan's face was inscrutable as he and his opponent wound their way over to the tournament director, who was equally inscrutable as he scribbled down the results of their game. Finally my little man looked in my direction and flashed me a smile, and my heart soared.

So there it is. Sitting on Duncan's bookshelf now is a shiny trophy, and sitting right here is one proud mom.

(Disclaimer: As much as I would like to take credit for the horribly punny title of this post, it comes from an old joke. Alas, I must keep my ego in check. Good knight, all!)

Those Lousy Kids!

Friends, I have now experienced a parental rite of passage. One that every parent hopes they will never deal with, but every parent does. I'm surprised I lasted this long, but in the end I could not escape.

Duncan Disorderly has lice. Had lice. I really, really hope the latter is true.

I should have known sooner. The condition he was in when the problem came to light qualifies me for the ironic Mommy of the Year award. Two days before the actual discovery, I did in fact notice that he was scratching his head a lot. Suspiciously, I checked over his head...and found nothing. Mind you, he has fairly thick hair, and I have no experience with lice. Perhaps the problem was not full-blown yet, or perhaps I simply did not know how, where, or how thoroughly to look. But in the post-construction haze of drywall dust in which we live, we're all a little dry-skinned and itchy, and I chalked it up to dry skin and dandruff.

Two days later, my friend came home (I should s'plain, Ricky. The big move is actually something we've gone into with our best friend, a single dad of three. Big house, three adult best friends, many financial and child-care conveniences). My friend came home early from work to pick up his youngest daughter, Alessa, from school because she had lice. Uh-oh. Duncan and Alessa are the closest of the kids in the family - she's about a year older than he is, and they are constantly playing together.

Check again - et voila!

Honestly, I haven't the foggiest idea how I had missed them. Apparently after my initial dismissal, Duncan decided not to complain further about his itchy head. However, he had been itching so much in the past few days that he had sores on his scalp from scratching. And there were lice. Adult ones. Big, nasty creatures. I swear, I pulled one off his head and it snarled at me.

Frenetic activity ensued, procedures which would make any disaster management organization proud. You, upstairs! Grab all blankets, pillowcases, dirty clothes. You, get down to the nearest grocery store and get lice kits. You, check all the remaining household members (no one else had them, despite the furious psychosomatic itching now going around). You - stay put, don't touch stuff! For a while it seemed like there was a delousing party going on, with my friend and I working the various stations. One child showered. Next child showered while the first child got hair saturated with lice killing cream. First child re-showered while second child got the cream treatment. Combs were boiled, linens and clothes were added to an increasing mountain of trash bags in the laundry room. The pets - oh sweet Diana the PETS need to be checked! (they were also fine, fortunately). Then manual delousing of the both of them, which was no fun task. Side by side, my friend and I hunched over our children with tiny-toothed lice combs, picking by sections and removing the offending vermin.

At last, it was done. It took about two days to get the laundry caught up, and there are still more tasks ahead of us. They need daily checks, and retreatment in two days. I don't even know for sure if they will be allowed to return to school tomorrow - I think the school nurse may insist on inspecting their heads personally.

There is one shining light in all of this, however. Duncan got the haircut I've been nagging him to get for ages - and I didn't even have to be a tyrant and insist. After all his resisting, a few days of having parasitic insects chewing on his head changed his tune drastically, and he was asking me repeatedly when we were going to get it done (the barber would not take him until 48 hours after his treatment).

Once there, the barber shaved most of it close according to my instructions, pausing to ask if I'd like to have the front left a little longer so that he could spike it a bit. Ask the boy, I said. It's his hair. The boy didn't hesitate.

"Get RID of it!"

Daddy got SERVED.

There are two Duncans, it would seem. One for home, and one for show.

As I've mentioned, Duncan is a gifted kid...says so right there on the state test result paper they sent me. Comes by it honestly, I suppose, as he comes from two parents who were labeled as gifted children as well, albeit with two very different ways of dealing with it. My husband was a rather proud, confident gifted kid, one who was quite happy to share and display his talents. I, on the other hand, was a painfully shy gifted kid, one who was very paranoid about being perceived as "show-offy"...and therefore had a tendency not to volunteer too much.

Duncan, I think, falls somewhere in the middle. He does like to show off in a few areas where he shines, particularly math. But he definitely puts on a different persona around kids than he does around adults. Oh, I don't just mean in the general sense. Of course kids do play with kids differently. But as someone who knows Duncan very well, I can tell that he...dumbs it down...around other kids to fit in better. It's kind of awkward to watch, but it's his choice.

I'm not the only one who's noticed it, apparently. Every Sunday when I pick him up from Chess Club, he's usually playing some kid his own age, and they're really goofing around, not thinking moves through clearly, just playing like...well, like eight-year-olds. So I was surprised when his coach took me aside and said, "You know...Duncan's game really improves when he plays older kids. He really applies himself...and he is smart. I'd like to get him competing in some tournaments this school year." Once my swelled head subsided a bit, I asked the boy if he'd like to - hey, I don't want to be one of those pushy 'stage moms' - and his interest was piqued. So, there may be some interesting stories to tell later this year!

But around us boring ol' grownups, he is perfectly content to strut his stuff. Recently he has also developed an addiction to the classic Super Nintendo game "Tetris Attack". A seemingly simple game, and one I enjoyed playing some pretty evenly-matched games of against him...at first. But the boy studied the game. He learned the strategies, and how to build up opponent-crushing combos...and before long I was barely winning one game in five against him, if that.

Intrigued, my husband decided to try and take on the boy himself - and found himself getting just as thoroughly stomped as I was. After a long session of rematches the other day, Duncan told his daddy that he would only play one more game. Gamely tossing in some competitive banter, my husband replied, "Oh, I see. Afraid you're gonna lose to your old man, eh?"

Duncan sighed. "No, Daddy. I'm just getting bored playing against an amateur."

That's our boy.

Ahhh...Young Love.

Or maybe: "Ahhh! Young Love!" It's a tossup.

My little man's best friend is a girl. And a bit of a tomboy at that. Talk about your '80s high school movie.

And they are inseparable. So much so that they had to be, well, separated this year, class-wise: they were so disruptive in the first grade that the teacher made absolutely sure they were assigned to different teachers for the second. Always talking to each other, always passing notes, whispering, sitting together at lunch, and so on. But the truly funny thing about their relationship? It's also a rocky one. She thinks he's insensitive; he thinks she gets offended too easily. He can be infuriatingly argumentative; she's a master of the Silent Treatment (this drives him insane).

I got to see a lot of this firsthand last year. Having no job, I decided to volunteer a couple hours a day in his classroom...making copies, helping kids with their math and sight reading, and just generally helping maintain order. Time and again, the same scenarios played out.

Enter Chloe, stage right. "Duncansmom, I'm not talking to Duncan!!" Though the teacher always referred to me by "Mrs." and my last name, the kids permanently labeled me "Duncansmom" anyway. She stalks off dramatically.

Enter Duncan. "Mom, Chloe won't talk to me! I accidentally elbowed her and I didn't MEAN to she was right behind me and I didn't know she was there!"

"Well, did you explain that it was an accident?"
"Yes."
"Did you tell her that you're sorry?"
"Yes!!"

"Well..." Really, what can I do? I shrug. "Give her time then, baby. If she's going to be mad, she's going to be mad." He stalks off in turn, mumbling, "Girls!!"

And so it goes on to this day, though they no longer disrupt class time. Just last week I was informed that, due to an altercation on the playground, Chloe was in fact not speaking to him. He has learned roll with it a bit more, be patient and wait for her to cool off; however, the chalkboard suggests that it still aggravates him a bit:

Oh, these tender moments.

I wonder...how many more grades before she's his 'girlfriend'?

Field of Daydreams

A few months ago, a paper came home from school announcing sign ups for baseball through the city recreation department, and Duncan expressed an interest. I was uncertain - he's never played team sports before, and I wasn't really sure if it would be his cup of tea. Not wanting to be a pushy mom, I filled out the application and the check, then sat down with him and explained the ramifications. This is a commitment to a team. It was his choice whether to sign up, but if he did, I was going to expect him to see it through. I gave him the envelope, and he chose to put it in the mailbox himself. And then, the frustrations ensued!

Duncan Disorderly is (a) gifted; and (b) an only child. He has little experience working in a team situation. He is accustomed to being good at things right away. New concepts and skills tend to come easily, and when they do not, he gets frustrated quickly and will often attempt to quit rather than risk seeming less than perfect.

At the very first practice, after swinging away fruitlessly at several pitches, the boy walked off the field. There were tears. There was anger. And he was totally "QUITTING BASEBALL!!!"

At the third practice, I was informed that they were "using the wrong ball" with him. Apparently, they have a special heavier, deadlier baseball that they use when it is his turn in catching practice. He simply would not accept that all baseballs were standard. He'd been hit by the ball a couple of times, and though he was no worse for the wear and not even bruised, he was "QUITTING THIS STUPID TEAM!!"

I gotta say, I was very discouraged at this point. As much as I did not want to subject him to forced misery throughout the summer, I had to stick to my guns. He had understood the commitment, and chosen to accept. "You have to see this through," I told him. "After this season, if you don't want to sign up for baseball ever again, I'll still be proud of you for trying this." The look I got was withering. Then, after a few weeks of practices, the games began.

Coach Pitch baseball with eight-year-olds has got to be the most informal sporting event I have ever attended. The coach, as the name suggests, does all the pitching, and "three strikes you're out!" seems to be replaced by six, seven.....eight....oh heck, let's give the kid one more chance, he'll hit it this time. Given that this could lead to a neverending inning, the kids are generally encouraged to take one base per hit, and innings end when each kid in the batting lineup has had a turn. And near as I can tell, they don't keep score. Fine by me, but some parents actually got a bit irate.

"Look at that," said a mother beside me, after the last batter hit a fly ball that was caught near first base. "He's out. Why is the coach letting them all run home?"

"They're having a good time," I said. "That was the last kid, the inning's over. They've all got to come back anyway, and they're not keeping score."

She puffed up angrily. "Well, we are!" Whatever.

And my kid? He didn't do too badly! Not the best kid on the team by far...but getting a solid hit at bat and getting to run bases while I cheered did wonders for his attitude about this whole baseball thing. I do wonder if he believes he volunteered to play in the 'floatfield'. I could never quite suss what position he played. Shortstop, perhaps, but at various points in the game he seemed way closer to third, or second, or even to the far outfield, generally striking up conversations with other players, or examining the grass, or off in daydream land.

Still, he's happy now. Coming up to me after the game, trailing more dust than Pig Pen, sporting his City Recreation baseball cap and a shirt that had his number on the back and the team name "XYZ Dental" on the front (oh yeah - athletic sponsorship!), he slung his bat casually over his shoulder and gave me a gap-toothed smile that melted my heart.

"That wasn't too bad," he said. "I guess I'm kinda looking forward to the next game."

When come back, bring pie

For a man who loves to tease that our child is the mailman's son, my husband sure has a reliable little protege at times.

The other night, I was IM'ing back and forth with an old friend, who happened to mention during our conversation that his wife had just brought him a slice of pie at the computer. I relayed this tidbit of information to my own spouse when he idly asked me who I was chatting with.

"Where's my pie?" he asked.

"I don't have any pie for you. I only said that my friend has pie."

"I heard 'pie'. I think you promised pie."

Flash forward to last night. While making dinner, I realized I had forgotten one important ingredient and would have to run to the store in the middle of cooking. (sigh) I let the boys know I was making a quick trip to the store. "You're getting pie too, right?" queried my husband.

"Ermm...."

"You mentioned pie last night. You got my hopes all up. Need pie!"

Duncan perked up, as if on cue. "You're getting pie?!"

"I didn't say that! I never promised pie!"

Duncan, with great vaudevillian flourish: "What's that? You promised PIE?!"

Partners in crime, those two. Pie, anyone?
(P.S. Bonus points if you recognize the title reference.)

Bad Medicine

At one time or another, you've probably received that joke e-mail, "How to Give a Cat a Pill". Funny stuff; I can definitely relate. What I had not realized until today, however, is that the world is long overdue for "How to Give an Eight Year Old a Pill". Maybe the title just doesn't flow as well. But oh....my....Gods.

Duncan Disorderly has reached that awkward age in the world of medicine. Cough syrups still cater to his age, stuff like Triaminic, Robitussin, Dimetapp - fine if he needs a multi-symptom cold and flu remedy. Anything else, it seems, either comes in ineffectually low-dosage toddler drops intended for 6 and under; and actual swallow-it-with-water pills, which he doesn't feel ready to handle. Now Duncan has been in need of a good decongestant for several days (I have apparently changed my name to "Bob", for one thing.) He seemed highly resistant to the idea of nasal spray, and since I did not relish my mental projection of trying to stuff a little spray bottle up the nose of a struggling 52 pound child, I took a deep breath and gambled on the pills.

For children ages 6-12: 1 pill. One very tiny pill. Coated. An aspirin would dwarf this pill. And I know, or at least deeply suspect, that the child has in the past ingested balled-up paper, bits of eraser, small pebbles, and the unpopped kernels at the bottom of his popcorn bag. Yet within half an hour he had not only failed to swallow the pill, he had very nearly worked himself into a full-blown anxiety attack.

For some reason, he just couldn't do it. Per my instructions, he put the pill on his tongue and drank the water....and then the pill was still there, in his mouth. Then the coating would wear off and the taste would come through....and this taste was SOOO HORRIBLE that there was simply no way he could continue. He became terrified of the bad taste, which was apparently "WORSE THAN TEN HIPPOPOTAMUSES (sic) WITH FUR", and he did not want to hear that the tiny tiny pill would take far less time to swallow than ten hippopotamuses with fur.

I played through my entire repertoire, from pleading to reasoning, bargaining to just flat out putting my foot down and insisting. And yes, I did occasionally allow him to get a fresh pill. Not every time, mind you...I mean, I only had one box. But when the coating wore completely off, I would get a new one to keep him trying (although the thought did occur to me that in thirty, maybe forty more tries, the pill might just dissolve altogether and spare me the hassle.)

Several times I felt a rush of excitement as I thought he had managed it, only to find the pill at the bottom of his water glass. I even critiqued his water-drinking style, attempting to figure out the problem. As a result, I may never share a drink with him again, as I previously had no idea how much of the water falls back into the glass while he is drinking. Near as I can tell, the boy drinks by holding his mouth open and tilting sufficient quantities of fluid into it. I had to give a tutorial on how to tilt a water glass, drink and swallow the water in one's mouth before tilting the glass back to an upright position. Then, back to the blister pack for another pill.

After a total of forty-five minutes, a half gallon of tears, and six decongestant pills in the trash, the pill went down. And this boy, who had sobbed and railed and screamed "I JUST CAN'T DO IT" the whole time, was now soooo proud of himself. The tears dried and the attitude clicked over like the flipping of a light switch. Why, that was so simple. I can take pills just like a grownup!

Please, oh please, tell me that this is a "first time" thing, a six-minute mile, a mind over matter situation. Tell me that now that he's done it and knows he can, he'll just do it. 'Cause know what? The decongestant is actually working pretty well, and will continue to work....

...for the next 4 to 6 hours.

"Magically" delicious? Perhaps not.

I love that kid of mine. He's often on his own little planet, coming back from it with thoughts and tales that make no sense to me...but he's an independent thinker and a natural skeptic, and I love the conversations we have.

As I prepared dinner this evening he was off in the living room watching his favorite program, The Fairly Oddparents. It's a Nickelodeon show, which means that during the commercial breaks he is bombarded by hyper sensational commercials for (1) toys, (2) incredibly sugary breakfast cereals coveted by cartoon animals, and (3) snack foods that are designed to be "gross", highly portable (Ooo! Yogurt in a TUBE!), or turn your tongue rainbow colors.

So he walked into the kitchen during one such break and said, "That's ridiculous. Trix wants me to buy their 'new and improved' cereal that's soooo great....all they did was make the cereal into different shapes now!"

Me: "Well sweetie, welcome to the wonderful world of marketing!"

Duncan: "I know! They just want to make more money."

Don't move 'til you see it.

I spent too much money today at Wholesale Chess today. I just couldn't help myself!

We needed a new chess set. Duncan became interested in chess earlier in the school year - apparently they had a "teaching set" in his classroom with the moves printed on each piece and he and some other friends were learning to play during free time. I didn't think much of it. I played him a few times, and while he did have a clear idea of how the pieces move, he had little to no strategy and I beat him fairly easily. His interest grew, and around Thanksgiving I discovered through an ad in the local paper that there was a free Youth Chess Club meeting in the library every weekend. The meetings are now a high point of his week, and he gets positively distraught if it looks like we won't make it.

He ran out of opponents close to the end of his meeting today and asked if I would play with him. Now, I'm just not a great chess player. My distractibility combined with my very poor visualization skills make it difficult for me to plan more than a move or two ahead. And I quickly discovered that my little boy had been paying attention in three months of meetings. Before long, I found that he had me in a Noah's Ark Trap, something he learned from the club.

"Got your bishop," he said casually.

He dodged every trap I tried to set up. He played with strategy. Several moves later, in a moment of inattentiveness, I left my queen open and it didn't go unnoticed. He successfully pinned my last rook. Finally I was down to my king and a couple of pawns against several strong pieces, including his queen. Rarely has accepting defeat made me feel so proud.

So, he's been needing a good chess set for home...I figured it was finally time to realize this was not a passing fancy for him and get him some quality equipment. I got a good deal for what I got...a quality vinyl roll-up board, triple-weighted tournament pieces, and a chess clock and deluxe roll-up bag both in his favorite color, red. With shipping - fifty dollars. I let him know it's coming later this week, and I got extra hugs and kisses for my awesome Good Mommy-ness.

Heh, heh. Little does he realize I will now use his very tools to brush up my game. Then he'll be sorry, spending all that quality time with Mom using his brain and having fun! Oh, wait.

Such a deal!

Discovered on the new chalkboard today:

Curses! Foiled again!

Duncan Disorderly lost another tooth today, meaning that tonight I get to engage in one of my favorite tasks of parenthood - being the Tooth Fairy. And by favorite, I mean this:

Tooth Fairy Duty sucks.

I don't even know why I do it. The little skeptic has accused me of being the Tooth Fairy on more than one occasion...as he put it once, "You know, any grown-up could just sneak in after I'm sleeping and take my tooth and leave a dollar...probably YOU!" I staunchly deny it, and he doesn't push further. My guess is he doesn't want to risk losing the dollar. So with every tooth, I sneak in and replace it in the wee hours. Mind you, this boy sleeps with one arm under his pillow, and he is a light sleeper. So this task takes me forever. I have to creep slowly over to his bed in the darkness, then gently ease one hand under his pillow while trying to avoid his arm - and believe me, a tiny little tooth becomes extremely hard to find under these conditions. Sometimes he wakes a bit and I dive out of sight, holding still until he resettles. All told, I usually come out of his room a half hour later with sore knees and a grouchy disposition. All for a kid whose belief in the Tooth Fairy is tenuous at best.

So tonight, I thought I could save myself the hassle with a little sleight-of-hand. After our nightly reading, he climbed under the covers and placed the tooth under his pillow. As he reached up to me for his habitual "hug-and-kiss-and-squeeze", I surreptitiously slid my hand under his pillow and palmed the tooth, taking it with me as I turned off the lights and left. And I held my breath. And I thought, "Man, I'm a genious." And then, alas:

"Mooooommmmm!" sigh.

"I can't find my tooth!" came the call from his room. What could I do? As I entered, he was sitting in the dark running his hand along the sheet under his pillow. So I also ran my hand along the sheet in the dark, replacing the tooth as I did so. "Oh, thank goodness!" he said as he resettled. "I was going to sleep with my hand right on my tooth so I don't lose it."

Oh, I'm going to have fun tonight.

Umm..how long are we talkin'?

On any given day I have no idea where a conversation with my eight-year-old will take me.

We went out for Chinese buffet, and in the car little Duncan made up a game he called "Would You Rather." We've all played it in various incarnations at one time or another, you know...he'd say "Would you rather be a dog...or a cat?" "If you were reeeeally hungry, would you rather get plenty of spinach, or a tiny bit of dessert?" "Would you rather be rich, or skinny?" (duh! show Momma the money!)

I got into the spirit and tried to come up with a few thinkers myself. "Would you rather be smart, or kind?" I can't help but notice that both husband and son answered "Smart!" without a second's hesitation. Hmm! No wonder I'm the people person in the family! And so it went on, dozens of questions, until Duncan asked the one that had me in stitches.

"Would you rather suffer, or die?"