Last night I went swimming with Jordan and Jacob, my two youngest boys, and we played a silly game called “Chocolate Cake”.
You tell a story, and eventually you say the phrase “chocolate cake”, and then everybody has to jump into the pool. Last one in is the loser. They learned it in swim class at that same pool, and they love it.
For the three of us, I think the game is mainly an excuse to have a big giggle-fest, because we try to work in phrases like “chocolate steak”, “chocolate lake”, etc. This might sound lame to you, but for an audience of 8- and 10-year-old boys, it’s Pure Comedy Gold.
Usually I just do the story-telling part, but this time, I hauled my heft out of the water and played a couple of times. I even managed to win once. Pwned!
The stories go on and on and on … and on … and they are ridiculous. Stupid and silly and funny. We all make each other laugh a lot. One time I questioned whether Jordan said “cake” or “kake”. Hey, you never know.
And then when the “chocolate cake” kicks in, somebody wins and somebody loses, but we don’t care. Much. The end is actually anti-climactic, because we’re having fun with it during the game. An audience of 8- and 10-year-old boys can do that.
These are the kind of memories I don’t have enough of, and that I crave for myself as I grow old. My oldest son James is 21 now, and it bugs me that I can’t really picture him in my mind as an 8-year-old, or re-imagine what his voice sounded like back then. I don’t know why it matters—this imagined ability that maybe nobody else has—but it seems important to me, somehow, in a way that even I do not understand.