The Game of Lif

Growing up, we were not the typical middle-class nuclear family, but, rather, a large, noisy Italian-Irish clan skirting the edge of poverty. It was a household where the family garden was more about survival than hobby and the fishing season held us over for the winter.

While I'd like to pretend the reason we didn't have tv most of my childhood was because my mother was a pioneer in screenless parenting, the reality was we simply couldn't always afford it. We went for long stretches - years - without cable. Instead, we had the movies we checked out from the library: brilliantly technicolor musicals, engrossing silent films, tear-inducing black and white dramas, and terrifying Hitchcocks.

When the rain held us hostage for weeks on end and the films lost their luster, we'd drag out board games and have epic battles: Monopoly, chess, checkers, cribbage, war, gin, poker, Scrabble. We'd spend weeks on one Monopoly game, shortening the title to four letters. "Do you want to play M-O-N-O?" we'd ask our siblings, casually plotting alliances and preparing to economically destroy each other.

And there was always music. Mom had a collection she'd started compiling as a teen. She'd put her 45s on the stereo and we'd dance around the house to CCR, the Beatles, Heart, the Eagles. We'd wish we could be California girls with the Beach Boys and Run, Joey, Run with David Geddes.

We danced on the hardwood floors of the living room, singing words older than us. We put together routines, filled with flourishes and sweeping entrances more suited to the musicals we watched than the music videos we didn't.

Every now and then, Dad, surely exhausted from the twelve hours he spent at the mill followed by more hours making sure we had firewood, would walk into the room and dance with us. He'd grab us up in a two-step and swing us around the room until we were laughing too hard to keep dancing. He had a particular gait, a patented move. Bent a bit forward, he'd purse his lips and swing his arms with more energy than most songs required. He'd twirl us, pick us up, and send us flying into the couch.

Not everything in my childhood was rosy. There were things that still cling like tar to my memories. Maybe, if I were another sort of person, those would be the memories shining clearest. But I am who I am and instead, I cherish those bits and pieces of golden sunshine.

I took two glorious weeks off of work this Christmas. Two glorious weeks during which I spent the majority of my time with the kids. Because of our current custodial arrangement, I'm usually the "work" mom. I'm the homework checker, the lunch maker, the bath and bedtime enforcer. I'm the wake upper, the hurry upper, the we're running later. I'm the homework signer, the letter reader, the bad school day listener. At the end of the week, they go to Chad who spends the weekends with them, taking them on adventures.

But for two weeks I was the stay in bed and snuggler, the brunch maker, the lazy day organizer, the popcorn maker. And for two weeks, we watched old movies, sang the lyrics to songs older than our combined ages, danced in our living room in our pajama bottoms and stockinged feet, and we played Lif.

It's sat on a shelf in the garage since we moved, the box collecting dust and the yellow square surrounding the white "E" fading until Life became Lif. It's an old version, the cover reflecting a happy family with big hair and shoulder pads. We pulled it out, dusted the top, and opened the treasure inside.

For almost two weeks, we played, dipping our hands into big bowls of popcorn and singing along to music. We laughed as Joseph drew the $250K salary card and lived in a mobile home. We rolled on the floor when Elizabeth adopted her six and seventh child - twins - and tried to somehow make them fit in her car.

We wore sweats and socks, cuddled under blankets, and make pretzels from scratch. I left the kitchen in their hands and they made lunches and dinners, declaring Joseph's macaroni and cheese the best in the world. We napped and slept in, read long novels and short poems. I closed my laptop more often than not, letting the world spin without me knowing the current trending topics or which politician said what.

It was wonderful.

Not everything in their lives are rosy. They are, after all, the children of divorce and dividing their time between even friendly co-parents has to take its toll. Their childhood will include memories that cling like tar. But, they are a lot like me. The memories that will shine clearest are those bits and pieces of golden sunshine created on cold winter days filled with music, laughter, and dancing.

And so much love.

All wrapped up in the game of Lif.