Within minutes, downstairs was spotless the kids were beaming my wife, Paige, was in awe (or maybe shock) and I was feeling smug. “Three more XP for tidying the house-at 10 XP, you’ll reach Level 2!” “Whoever takes their plates to the sink gets one experience point!” “What would encourage me to clean up and play nice?” I wondered, trying to put myself in the shoes of a 6-year-old, not exactly a quantum leap for a man who loves jelly beans and plays Minecraft. Messes-both emotional and spaghetti-based-abounded. Yet by late June on vacation in New England, our rented house was overflowing with extended family, Lego pieces, and restless energy. I dealt with the usual conflicts-the I-wants, the but-whys, the it’s-my-turns-as I suspect most parents do: inconsistently, haphazardly, making it up, all the time. For the most part I parented by intuition. In April I became a stepdad to three amazing kids: two boys and a girl, ages 5, 6, and 8, respectively. It started three months earlier, when I dove headfirst into parenthood for the first time. I took a sip and announced, reflexively, “Delicious! One point for you!” He darted inside from the back porch, shouting to the other adventurers, “Two more points, and I’m at Level 9!” The boy with super-speed concocted fresh Spemonades-that’s one part Sprite, one part lemonade-for myself and a few lucky houseguests. The wizard drew crayon portraits in the Den of Tranquility.
On a summer Nantucket afternoon, the 8-year-old mermaid queen organized the kitchen pantry. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday.
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