There comes a point in parenting when you must show your children who you really are. That day, for me, arrived at the very end of Christmas break when we played a game of Monopoly.
The family from which I originated stopped playing Monopoly with me decades ago. They refused anytime I pulled out the board and suggested a quick game. “Absolutely not,” they would say. I told myself this was because they were tired of losing. It was like being asked to play a quick pickup game of basketball by Michael Jordan, I thought. And who could blame them for wanting to avoid that level of humiliation?
The truth I actually knew though, was that they refused to play with me because Monopoly turns me into a monster.
Honestly, I would not have blamed them had they tied rocks to the game box and tossed it in the ocean or buried it deep beneath the earth’s surface a la “Jumanji” (the movie, not the book) to avoid unleashing a string of evil terror on the world. Unlike “Jumanji,” though, which features killer monkeys, a crazed hunter, a loose lion in the living room and a monsoon in the library, the evil terror Monopoly unleashes on the world is just my ego.
If I may defend myself just for a second. Board games are really the only competitive outlet available to me. You’ll likely be shocked to learn that I, a professional writer, am not especially athletic. I was not blessed with remarkable hand-eye coordination or any real control over my limbs. So excelling on a court or field was never an option for me. Which meant I was often mistaken for a gentle peacemaker, uninterested in victory, when in reality all my competitiveness lingered dormant just beneath the surface, threatening to explode if provoked.
And there’s something about Monopoly that provokes that competitiveness every time. I think because it involves money. You will be legitimately shocked to learn that I, a professional writer, love money. Give me a pile of money, albeit fake, and a chance to win at something, and I turn from Doctor Jekyll to Mister Hyde.
As any good mother would, I’ve done my best to keep this side of myself completely hidden from my children. I encourage good sportsmanship in their own athletic endeavors, and implore the merits of sharing and the importance of waiting patiently for other people’s turns while playing with friends or family.
When my kids agreed to play Monopoly with me after I suggested it as a joke, assuming my husband would refuse for the aforementioned reasons and being delighted when he agreed, I kept my worst impulses in check for the first hour of the game. But then things started going south when one of my daughters took a bit too long to roll the dice. “We have to keep it moving,” I said in a tone that wasn’t yelling, exactly, but also wasn’t not yelling.
Then things got worse when my husband tried to convince one of our children to trade St. Charles Place for Tennessee Avenue to secure a monopoly for himself. In order to prevent my daughter from agreeing to the trade, I said some things about my husband in the heat of the moment that I deeply regret.
Specifically, I called him a manipulative narcissist. He is neither manipulative nor a narcissist. And my children do not know the definitions of “manipulative” and “narcissist.” I was just really mad and it felt right.
And I remained mad until I manipulated our 7-year-old to trade with me and I got a monopoly of my own. We all did, eventually, which made the board a dangerous maze of house-and-hotel-dotted properties. Which is when things got really fun and also terrifying.
We all hoped everyone else would land on our properties while we avoided everyone else’s properties. This is, of course, impossible and the game became a ticking time bomb of inevitable bankruptcy for all but one of us.
The first player fell when she landed on a property whose rent was $1,200. As she turned her properties over to check the mortgage value and counted every last bill, she began to cry. Which is always the mark of a Monopoly game going well. Instead of meeting her with kindness and empathy, I told her “This is capitalism. The market is going to do what it’s going to do.”
I don’t even know what that means. I just said it with a lot of conviction.
The longer we played, the more I spouted faux-philosophy about America and real estate and passive income and I am positive that this was even more unbearable for my family than my snapping at everyone to be quicker with the dice rolls and card draws or straight up slinging insults.
So unbearable, that after two hours of playing, my husband gently suggested that we call it a night. This may have been because it was an hour past bedtime, but more likely it was because he was tired of me ripping our family apart with my accusations. Part of me wanted to keep playing, just for the satisfaction of bleeding everyone dry with my monopolied green and blue properties. But I also knew he was right and it was best to quit before my kids had to witness me either winning or losing.
Both scenarios would be bad. Because historically, I’m an insufferable winner. I claim it’s a result of my sharp mind and killer intuition. It was all skill, I say. But I’m an even worse loser. I whine about bad luck and accuse other players of cheating.
So it’s good that we stopped when we did and I could transform from Mr. Hyde back to Doctor Jekyll to wish my children a good night and express my regret that they saw as much of my dark side as they did.
But I can’t wait to play again.