Littlest one learns it's how you play game

"They won't let me play," said my 5-year-old as he came to me, pouting. "I've been waiting for a million years."
It is a complaint I have heard before.
The boys start playing video games, and David gets tired of watching. Sometimes, when he complains of waiting "for a million years," he has truly been waiting for a very long time. Other times, as I demand the controls be given to the child, I learn "a million years" has been five minutes.
Either way, it is a complaint that the boys know I do not want to hear. I would just as soon throw the blasted video game system away than argue over whose turn it is to waste their life playing it.
Usual handling
Normally, I handle such a situation in a responsible, mature manner. I may establish time limitations to ensure everyone has a turn, or simply (this is my favorite) insist that the game be turned off.
This day, with my little baby standing sad-eyed in front of me, a glint came to my eye. I was going to be ornery.
"Go in and tell them to let you play," I coached him.
"They'll say no," David said with resignation.
"Right!" I said, shooting my finger up into the air excitedly.
David was confused.
"When they say no," I looked him straight in the eye. "You say, 'Why not?'"
David was leery, but before he could ask any questions, I continued.
"They will say you can't play because they are playing," I told him. "You say, 'That's not why you won't let me play.'"
I suspected this comment would at least gain eye contact from the teenagers. I told David they would make comments like, "Oh really, why then?" or "OK, whatever, Dave."
The punch line
"It doesn't matter what they say," I told David, still looking him straight in the eyes. With a stern seriousness to my voice, I shared the knock-out punch line I wanted him to say, "You won't let me play because you're afraid of me."
I knew this would get a rise out of the boys.
"You're afraid I'll beat you," I told David while noting how to say the line with attitude.
"When they say they're not afraid of you," I continued to coach the now wide-eyed 5 year old, "tell them to prove it."
"They won't have a choice!" I beamed at the child. "They'll either play you, or they're chicken."
David was aflutter with excitement.
"OK! OK!" he said, his fingers twitching at the thought of holding the video game controls.
Then confusion fell across his face. "What do I say first?"
I became a little worried. Maybe this scenario was too much for the child.
Practice makes perfect
We practiced the lines a few times. After several attempts, he said, "You're afraid of me," with one hand on his hip and his head tilted in a cocky stare.
When he bellowed, "Prove it," like an officer of the law, I knew he was ready to face the teenagers in the other room.
The teary-eyed, dejected little boy was gone as David walked confidently through the door to meet his match.
I couldn't resist. I ran over and put my ear close to the knob. The sounds were muffled.
From my side of the door, the conversation started with quiet tones. As David's pitch rose with the words "afraid of me," I heard chuckles from the boys.
"Prove it!" rang loud and clear through the door.
I chuckled to myself as I walked back to my seat. David very likely would not get what he wanted, but I could hear the pride in his voice as he stuck up for himself.
Thirty seconds later, Robert came walking out of the room. He had a queer smile on his face.
He was just about to tell me about the encounter when he realized by the look on my face I already had the scoop.
We both burst out laughing.
"Prove it!" Robert said, chuckling. "That kid's hilarious."
As we laughed, David was inside, happily holding the video game controller.
gwhite@vindy.com