Hell, Thy Name is Candyland

“Hey Mommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna play Candyland?” Oh hell. It was only the 1,427th time she had asked me this morning, drawing out “Kee-ann-dee-lee-yand” in the way only a three-year-old can. What could I do?

“Okay, Punky. I’ll play Candyland with you.”

I had fallen right into her trap, the one she’s set for every man, woman and child who’s entered our house since Thursday, when I taught her how to play. Even Bruiser hasn’t been omitted from her dastardly Candyland plot.

“I know what Bruiser’s gonna do when he’s big,” she said with a knowing smirk last night before she went to bed.

“What?”

“He’s gonna play Keeandeeleeyand.”

“I can’t wait.”

The next day, I set up the board on the kitchen table while Punky squirms impatiently.

“Now. This card goes on the top,” she says quickly, placing a card at the top of the pile. I sigh. She does this every time.

“Is that the ice cream cone?” The ice cream cone sends a player straight to the end of the game, a mere two or three turns away from the Candy Castle, where all the Gingerbread Man players are trying to go. She’s silent. I pick up the card. Of course, it’s the ice cream cone.

“Punky, you can’t put that card on top,” I say. “It has to go somewhere in the middle of the pack. You know that.” She whines and puts her head in her hands.

“Do you want to play or not?” I ask.

“Yee-eah,” she sighs and draws a card. Instantly, she brightens.

“I get two greens!” she crows, moving her gingerbread man to the first green space on the board, then to another one halfway across the board.

“Punky. That’s not the next green space,” I say. “It’s this one.” I put my finger on a green space somewhere near the start of the game. “Come on. Quit doing this. You know how to play this game.” She puts her head in her hands.

“Okay,” I say. “We’re done playing.” She gasps and moves her gingerbread man to his rightful position.

“I get one red,” I say.

We go back and forth for a while, Punky staying just ahead of me, until I have the misfortune of drawing a gumdrop.

“I got a gumdrop!” I announce brightly. Punky puts her hand over mine.

“Oh, but mommy,” she says quietly, “You didn’t see that one.”

“What?”

“Put that card here,” she says, motioning to the top of the pile and pulling another card out for me, one that keeps me comfortably behind her on the board.

“Punky, I got a gumdrop,” I say. “Play fair.” I move my gingerbread man to the gumdro and she puts her head in her hands.

“And now I’ll never, never win,” she moans.

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“Never, never again,” she says piteously into her hands.

“The ice cream cone still hasn’t been drawn, you know.”

She picks up her head. After a moment, she draws another card. “Two yellows,” she sighs.

We continue on for a moment longer when I draw the ice cream cone. Oh, cruel fate! Why dost thou forceth me to teacheth my offspring life lessons? Silently, I show it to her.

“You didn’t see it-“ she begins.

“I did,” I say quietly. I put down the card and move my gingerbread man to the end of the game.

“Rrrrrrrrrrgh!” she grumbles. She grabs the ice cream card. “And now I’ll ruin it!” She bends the card in half. Oh. Hell. No.

“PUNKY.”

She stops and looks at me, knowing she’s gone too far. “I’m sorry,” she whines.

“If you ever do that again, we're going to give this game away,” I say quietly.

“I’m sorry, mommy,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’re a very good Candyland player, Punky, but nobody wins every game. Sometimes you win and sometimes I win.” She sighs and draws another card. In a few more turns, I cross the finish line. There’s nothing I wanted, uh, less.

“I win,” I say pleasantly.

“Okay, let’s play again,” she says briskly. “Only this time I win, okay Mommy? Okay?”

“Okay.”

Experience Punky's version of Candyland here (trauma at 5:42. Redemption shortly thereafter.). If you can get through this entire video, you have waaaaay too much time on your hands.