“Mommy, see this card I got. It’s an EX.”
“My skirnigorf has evolved!”
“I thought that was a good trade, but then I realized that mine had way more energy than the other one so I didn’t.”
Hold on – cards can have energy? They evolve? Tell me more no wait, that’s okay.
Pokemon.
I’ve tried. For years I have tried. I think I am a reasonably intelligent woman. I can hold my own in a conversation and can even watch movies with subtitles. But Pokemon is something beyond my comprehension.
And that, dear readers, is a problem because not only do I have four offspring who are all into Pokemon cards, our house is the trading hub for such activities. On any given day there could be up to nine or ten kids congregated on our front porch actively discussing and negotiating with these playing cards. They stroll over with their binders full of plastic sleeves housing these colourful and shiny bits of paper and huddle on the cold concrete for an hour or more. They only stop to pee or hydrate. And I teach in an elementary school so basically 75% of my waking hours have some element of Pokemon in it. I want to be an engaged mom and neighbour, but I’m struggling.
In an effort to be an invested parent and a teacher with a working knowledge of this craze, recently I agreed to let my son show me his Pokemon collection. It took a long time. A really, really long time.
What follows is a photo essay of sorts chronicling the longest 45 minutes of my life.
Do I want to see your Pokemon? Depends. Will you be serving snacks?
Tough Bananas 