Somewhere along the way, my house turned into a Pokémon card trading headquarters.
It started innocently enough. My 8-year-old got into Pokémon cards — like a lot of kids do — and I thought, “Oh that’s cute, a little hobby.” Fast forward to now, and I’m living with two collectors. Because of course, his dad got involved.
And not casually.
No no… we are talking serious business.
Apparently, there are rules. A lot of rules. You don’t just open a pack and say, “Cool card!” There’s a system. There’s strategy. There’s something called “condition,” which I’ve learned is very important and not to be messed with. Sleeves are involved. Special boxes. Careful handling like these cards are made of glass and dreams.
I’ve witnessed full conversations about centering. CENTERING. These are things I did not know I would need to understand as a parent.
Meanwhile, my 8-year-old is fully locked in, learning from his dad like he’s being trained for a tiny collector Olympics.
Now I know what his dad is doing, it’s teaching our son patience, organization, and learning the value of taking care of something. Plus, it gives them something to bond over — which is pretty cool.
But I do have to say, when the kid is hiding his new cards from his dad so he won’t take them away and put them in a book Do I understand all of it? Absolutely not.
Do I nod along like I do? Yes. Yes I do.
At this point, I’ve just accepted that I live in a house where tiny pieces of cardboard are treated with the same level of care as fine china.
And honestly… I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Comments