When I was pregnant, and gleefully digesting endless books in preparation for motherhood and parenting, not one of those so-called experts revealed the ugly truth: I would have to endure years of Candyland.
The mere sight of that “bored” game, with its windy path of colorful squares leading to the Candy Castle, and I immediately want to flip on the Cartoon Network. Those early sleepless nights were paradise compared to being stuck in a room with Gloppy and Princess Frostine.
After 7 years of post-game analysis, I realize that Candyland has the same allure as porn: it’s highly addicting and promotes fantasy. For a mother to try to enforce healthy eating, after a child has been exposed to images of jellybeans, fudge and licorice, is like the middle-aged wife trying to compete with those X-rated cheerleaders her husband has been secretly watching perform on the basement TV.
When Savannah suggests we play Candyland, I cringe. Fun for a kid is the family reunion adults dread, with King Kandy, the rich old grandfather, Lord Licorice, the eccentric, gay uncle, and Lolly, the bratty younger cousin.
“Try finding the Old Maid deck” I’ll re-direct. At least the eccentric Old Maid, compared to the Candyland gang, resembles a 60s radical. She still smokes pot, I bet.
Meanwhile, I’m counting the days until Savannah discovers Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit. Now those are games.