How to Win at Scrabble With Your Nine-Year-Old

              for Amadea, one of my all-time favorite words

First off, cheat. Not on your own behalf: on hers.

At first, this may seem counter-intuitive; do it anyway,

and from start, when she picks an E and you pick T,

such that technically she goes first, but balks.

Change the rules on a whim

(Parents are masters at this; ask any kid).

The rule, you explain, is ambiguous (say, “confusing”):

What the Great Scrabble Makers in the Sky really meant

was that she who picks a letter closest to the beginning

of the alphabet gets to choose when to go.

“Oh,” she says, “that's great!  You go first.”

You make an amazing word (can't help yourself, being

hard-wired genetically to be competitive over anything

involving words), and get a wicked double score

with high-numbered letters like H and K or was it F?

She then makes stunners like “sap,” and "not,” to your

63-point seven-letter extravaganza “FESTOONS”

(it's a disease; you are helpless, may wish to consider

consulting a therapist to see if this could be classified

as child abuse), moving on to gastric, verity (involving

several smaller juxtaposed words), and the like.

Her face is falling and she's a sixth your age. It is

also the dangerous color of “isn't your science project

due tomorrow, the one you haven't started yet?

(even though last time this happened she tied for first prize).

This should bring out your nurturing (read “sucker”) instinct.

When it is her turn again and she's stuck, you sense tears

welling up behind her clenched face (you didn't realize

entire faces could clench until you had children),

and it is important at this point to command,

“let me see your letters; it's allowed, if it's once.”

She doesn't buy this, has her pride, but is desperate

to believe, a condition with which you identify,

as a chronically ailing agnostic.

And suddenly, an epiphany!  You can make her

a seven letter word, more or less exonerating you

from sin (or as stated earlier, mental illness)... and you are so

excited over the prospect of this repeat feat you'd be

celebrating jubilantly were she a gerbil.

Just the very idea of banishing all letters from tray to board

is as cathartic as the most fantastic of bathroom experiences.

Anyway, with something akin to religious fervor (just short of

tossing of crutches or speaking in tongues) you exclaim, “STORAGES!!!”

then mumbling, um, I don't think that's really a word,

but wait, it must be of course it is,  -- and here it is necessary

to fight a maddening urge to check.   Or, you can check, but lie if needed.

She places it and racks up 61 to your 63-point F word (not all

good F words are small, you realize with an inward grin).

But a bad spell (no pun intended) is coming: she alternates

between fabulous or horrific (as your father coined 40 years ago)

vowel movements, and wants to trade in her letters.

“Then you have to miss a turn,” you say, to which she brightly responds

“OK!” but you don't want her to. You can't let this actually happen.

Again, she says she doesn't mind, but in the end she is

only going to trade a few so now you must state, “if it's only a few

you definitely don't miss a turn.” So she trades, becomes happy,

and then you proceed to pull off something indescribably and idiotically amazing:

you make the word "quo” on a triple word score, exult over the

33 points, then challenge yourself, find that “quo” cannot stand alone,

lose your turn, and it's back to her. (Stupidity can further good parenting;

apply this maxim liberally). But anyway, this is a first for you, reminiscent

of that TV sitcom in which the woman says to her husband,

“You mean you had an argument with me in your head,and YOU LOST???”

which is somewhat cheering, even as you mourn the lost turn,

and being stuck with Q.   There are few things in life more tragic than

being stuck with a Q, orphaned by U; worse even than entrapment

by J or Z.   Things proceed, and in your peripheral vision you notice

she is trading a few more letters, maybe every three turns.

Say nothing.   It never happened.  You are simply delusional.

She is getting sleepy -- cranky, in fact. By now, you have asked to see

her letters a half-dozen times, and performed miracles of which

she can be extremely proud, because after all, she picked the letters, right?

In fact, you are beginning to get worried over the numbers.

Suddenly she cannot go on, leaves to get ready for bed, letting you tally.

Results are in: and they are neck and neck!   294 to 293, in your favor.

At this point, it is adamant to point out the difference in your

respective ages, and extol her verbal virtues to the heavens.

You must state, in exactly these words:

“Incredible! I don't know how

you managed it!” But this is not good enough, because your score

is higher, if by one point. You then remember that she never took

a last turn, and she says she doesn't care, but at this point you MUST

run back, desperately seek some pathetic, lonesome letter lacrimosely

lusting after an A, and manage an arranged marriage with an S, on a triple score,

which racks up four points for her, and VOILA!!!

She takes the cake by three!  297 to 294!

At this point, act out furiously, tantruming like it's the end of the world,

(which in some ways it is) (make a note to call the therapist or, better, page the

emergency number, no later than 6 a.m.),  Now, lie down with your child

as usual, to talk a little before she drifts off.

The stars on her ceiling that absorb light by day are glowing.

You remark on the phenomenon about seeing a blur,

looking away, then seeing an object crystal-clear,

in peripheral vision. She tries it.  She sees! It's like magic!

You've done this countless times with real stars and it never

loses its seductive if infuriating wonder.  She sleeps now.

You go outside and look up but don't see anything so much

as your daughter's little hand finagling in a tile-filled box:

a plump pink star mining after miracles.

Oh, she was thrilled to have beaten you (the reigning queen!)

at Scrabble, and drifted off with a huge smug grin.

Which means, of course, that you won.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008