Blowing the Whistle
I don’t blow a whistle, wear black and white stripes or run up and down the court in real life - or in TV, for that matter - but I am a referee with 12 years of hard earned experience.
My least favorite match to ref is dinner where the opponents face off with their varying desires - proteins versus carbs, no dairy versus all the dairy. Every. Night. The hardest games come after Meatball Monday and Taco Tuesday. What-the-hell Wednesday is a no-win game every week. The competition heats up with outside penalties coming in like three basketball practices, two carpools and God forbid, a girls’ night out.
Once I blow the whistle on that game, we roll right into the next with an intense matchup in the chore tournament. Given how many chores my children actually have, you would think the competition would be lame but these contestants will prove you wrong task after task.
When gametime is announced, one contestant, in particular, ALWAYS claims it is the other one’s turn. Remembering who took the trash bins out is like trying to remember who got the last jump ball. Doing the dishes results in contestants calling an extended timeout for the bathroom. Making their bed results in, well, I don’t even know because they never play that game.
Once those two competitions have concluded, I actually should don the referee uniform as the WWF takes over our upstairs. Sometimes they claim the winner of the wrestling tournament will lose the chore tournament but this ref is no longer fooled by this stall tactic.
The rules seem to be different for house wrestling versus real wrestling (not that I know those either) but this ref has upped her game recently. Evidently, the match is always even when the crying sounds way too real and the thump of human parts above me sounds way too loud. The players have the gall to talk back, “He’s faking” or “He’s fiiiine.” No penalties assessed at that point.
Only when I can take it no longer do I start with my thirteen year old maneuver from the only parenting book I’ve ever read. “That’s 1….. That’s 2.” And they stop. Because when I get to three, even they know all games are over.