I was cooking dinner when I realized Mr. P and Little Boy had been playing quietly for a good 20 minutes. The house had not seen this level of calm in the evening since the night of the Toy Story stickerbook. I wandered to the living room and asked “What are you guys doing?”
“Playing chess,” Mr. P answered, and then I saw that our travel game box had been dissembled and the chess pieces arranged on the board.
“Chess? But… he’s three,” I said.
“So? I’m not going to play cars and trains forever,” Mr. P said.
I watched Little Boy twirling a pawn in circles in the middle of the board. “Don’t you think he should learn his colors first?”
“He’s still getting a feel for the game,” Mr. P hedged.
“My Dad didn’t teach me chess until I was, like, ten,” I said.
“And look how that worked out,” Mr. P said. (I can move the pieces correctly, but to mount any type of strategy more than one move in advance makes my brain mushy.)
“Horsey!” Little Boy said, holding up a knight to me.
“He likes the horses,” Mr. P explained to me.
“I see,” I said. “So…who’s white and who’s black?”
Mr. P soon abandoned the chess lesson, leaving Little Boy to “play” “chess.” At least he seems to understand the concept of one piece per square. It’s a start.
