My daughter clued me in to this. Last week she spent two dollars and fourteen cents and bought herself some peace and quiet via her daughters’ craft table in the kitchen.
While Jules, the two-year-old, lavished exotic paint strokes on a little wooden birdhouse, Allie, the five-year-old, struggled to glue and stuff tiny tissue paper squares into a flat Styrofoam flower.
Before long, though, she decided six pieces of half inch tissue were enough embellishment for the piece, and found a better use for it.
If you poke a fat, plastic needle quickly in and out of Styrofoam, it makes a noise that Allie thinks sounds like talking worms. I didn’t actually realize worms can talk. Thank goodness Allie was there to explain it to me.
“See, YaYa,” she said, “the worm pokes his head out and says ooh-eek, ooh-eek. Why don’t you try to catch him?” she finished.
Well, I tried, but I’m no early bird. Allie was delighted, and melted into giggles.
“You have to catch him ten times,” she declared, “and then you win the game!”
Now it was a musical game. So I tried twenty times and only caught the little bugger twice. And even though Allie was loving the challenge, ten victories seemed pretty extreme. Finally she stopped giggling, took pity on me, and poked the plastic worm out far enough for me to grab it with fake fingernails.
“I won! I won!” I celebrated, fully in touch with my inner competitive child.
“Nope,” Allie responded, “now you have to catch him ten more times if you want to win.”
“What?! You can’t change the rules after I win!” I countered to the little midget control freak.
She rolled her eyes, spoke distinctly, and used small words so I’d understand.
“But YaYa,” she explained, “this is the second level.”
And that’s how the generation gap was invented. By a five-year-old who beat Angry Birds before I did.
I’m never shopping at JoAnn’s again. It’s bad for my self esteem.