Pictionary

This weekend, Patrick and I sojourned to my hometown for the purposes of appreciating the late-spring splendor of my mom's flower garden, carrying off twenty kilos of Mother Earth News, and perhaps dealing my parents yet another crushing defeat at Pictionary. We have played Pictionary with them many times, from this past Christmas eve all the way back to the first summer we were together. We have always won. Sometimes by a canyon-wide margin, sometimes by a daring little hop. But always, always. Until yesterday.

The thing is, I suppose, that my parents have been married for nearly 38 years. As "in tune" as Patrick and I are with each other, let's just say: my folks have us beat. At times, especially heated Pictionary-playing times, they don't seem to be of separate minds. My Dad draws a moustache, and the first thing my mom blurts out is, "Oh-I-don't-know, Charlie Chaplin?" Bingo. The ballerina looks like a tutu-wearing quarterback, but that doesn't phase them. They can read minds. Each others'. Patrick and I groan and eye-roll, smack our foreheads (me, at least) and watch them cantering around the board while we languish at the seventh square.

Sigh. I suppose our championship reign of Pictionary is over. My mom's onion bread pudding, bubbling with melted swiss cheese did somewhat make up for the flop.

Thank goodness for that.