at play with the eight year-olds

I am very fond of a particular game, a form of Pictionary I play on my iPhone called "Drawsomething."   Fourteen year-old Iris uber Alles got tired of this game and stopped playing it over a year ago.  "Momdude, people don't play that any more."

"Sure they do.  I play it.  All these people I play with, play it."  

She sighed and rolled her eyes.  "No one plays it."

My opponents consist of eleven year-old Lola (who took a very lengthy break from the game but who returned to the game, thankfully), the Sober Husband once in a great while (he'll make a move in our ancient match whenever he feels like ingratiating himself with me), and a variety of strangers that the game pairs me up with.  I have crossed paths with some truly amazing artists, but judging by the quality of their artwork, most of my fellow players are small children.

"Look at this," I said to the children recently, showing them a rather arcane scribble.  "What do you think this is?"

The children made some insulting remarks, but as I pointed out, the player was "probably only eight years old."  How much detail and command of perspective could we expect? Gazing at the mysterious doodle,  I said, "You know how I started playing Warcraft again, after taking years off?  Well, I was playing my new character, and I didn't know how to play that character very well yet, and someone was insulting me.  So I wanted to make them feel bad, and I typed in, 'I'm only eight.'"

The children roared with laughter.  "You said you were 'only eight!'"  We all laughed until we started to cry, except for the Sober Husband, who clearly found all of this below his notice.

At the time we were staying in a cabin, rented through a resort management company but owned by an elderly couple with an unquenchable passion for nicknacks.  Ornaments covered every surface.  Iris accidentally knocked a decorative fish off a wall, and we could not figure out where it had come from.  It was fortunately undamaged, but still we couldn't cover up the mishap because we couldn't put it back in place.  The walls were still covered with plaques, pictures, and bric-a-brac, and there didn't seem to be a surplus nail or hook.  "We should leave it out with a note," I said.  All at the same time, Iris, Lola and I had the same thought:  we would use the eight year-old excuse.

"Iris has to write, 'I am very sorry.  I am only 8."

In the end, I think it was Lola, who can produce a childlike writing, who wrote, "My sister knocked a fish off the wall.  She is sorry.  She is only 8."  At least we resisted the impulse to describe Iris in this note as having special needs.